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HER OWN SISTER. 


/ 


BY 

lr 

EMMA SARA WILLIAMSON. 



-* 



NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 
17 to 27 Vandewater Street, 


V 


l » - 




HER OWN SISTER. 


r 

CHAPTER I. 

In Sydney the dramatic season was just drawing to a 
close. Some few amusements still dragged on a somewhat 
struggling and precarious existence, but they too were be- 
ginning to pall upon the most determined lovers of gayety, 
when something so startling occurred that the whole city 
was galvanized into new life and interest. 

The chief attraction at the theater most patronized that 
year by the fashionable world, and always celebrated — 
most justly — for its successful catering for the public taste, 
had been the debut of two pretty sisters, daughters of a 
clergyman whose sudden death had left them nearly desti- 
tute. Their daring choice of a histrionic career in lieu of 
following more beaten tracks was considered a proof that 
parsons* daughters were not exempt from the proverbial 
wildness attributed to parsons* sons; and, while the new 
departure shocked some, it impressed all. Even had the 
young ladies not possessed decided talent, curiosity would 
have rendered their first appearance a success; as it was, 
their good looks and cleverness combined procured them 
quite an ovation. Nor was the furor short-lived. They 
played through the whole season to crowded houses, and 
were to leave Sydney on a tour only while the votaries of 
pleasure recruited their jaded health and spirits at differ- 
ent country places or quiet sea-side resorts. 

The sisters had always acted together in the same play, 
and were excellent foils one to the other; Elaine Warring- 


6 


HER OWN SISTER. 


ton, the elder, being tall and slim, and her voice and feat- 
ures perfectly adapted to any part that required S3 r mpa- 
thetic rendering; while the younger, Ada, was petite , with 
the brightest possible eyes and a laugh that rang through 
the huge theater like the tones of a silver bell. 

It was only natural that they should have many ad- 
mirers; and, owing to the fact that some former acquaint- 
ances — people holding influential positions in the town — • 
had taken them up, and still invited them to their houses, 
the attentions they received were more serious and less 
dangerous than those usually offered to pretty actresses 
unprotected by either a father's or a husband's care. In- 
deed much indignation had been felt by the chaperons in 
the place — and by some of the chaperoned too — when 
Gerald Weare, the son of the wealthiest ship-owner in 
Sydney, plainly and pointedly evinced his admiration for 
one of them. The question that for a long time agitated 
society was which of the two sisters Gerald Weare had 
fallen in love with, for they were always together, and con- 
sequently it was difficult to determine; one day, however, 
curiosity was satisfied by his assertion that he had proposed 
to and been accepted by Ada Warrington. 

The excitement caused by this announcement had scarce- 
ly died away— had not, in fact, completed its allotted nine 
days of wonderment — when there came so tragic an end to 
the romance that every trivial feeling of envy or surprise 
was merged in a general thrill of horror. 

Ada— pretty, riante, light-hearted Ada— whose dramatic 
triumphs had been crowned by that last and best proof of 
her social success, was found lying on the ground late one 
night in the public gardens, her soft white garments wet 
with a crimson stream that trickled slowly from her breast, 
while a pale half-moon shone upon her upturned face and 
gleaming golden hair. 

She was dead — had been dead for an hour or more, the 
doctors said, shot through the heart; and the pistol which 


HER OWN SISTER. 


1 


liad done tlie cruel deed lay only a few yards away, as 
though the murderer had cast it from him, mastered by an 
overwhelming abhorrence of the tool he had employed. 
This incautious act, committed as it seemed in defiance of 
even the commonest instincts of self-preservation, appeared 
to make the discovery of his identity only a matter of time. 
With such a clew the police could surely command success! 

The inquest, held on the following morning, attracted 
an excited crowd; and, as fact after fact was elicited, each 
serving to point the finger of suspicion to one whom it 
seemed most terrible, most unnatural to suspect, the inter- 
est became so strained, so intense that scarcely a sound was 
heard in the closely packed room. 

Mr. Gerald Weare was the first whose evidence was taken. 
He was a tall young man, about twenty-three years of age, 
decidedly good-looking in spite of his extreme pallor, with 
dark hair and mustache, and large dark expressive eyes 
that just then spoke only of sorrow, finely chiseled features, 
and a sensitive mouth that trembled convulsively as he 
stood up to say what he knew. That was little enough. 

On the night before he had been engaged at a dinner- 
party, and did not get away till late. He had arranged to 
drive his fiancee home; but, though he had arrived before 
the time appointed, she had already left the theater. 

“ How did you account for that?” asked the coroner, 
sharply. 

Mr.. Weare shrugged his shoulders a little impatiently. 

44 1 supposed it to have been the result of some discrep- 
ancy between our watches.” 

44 And did you not golo her house to discover if your 
supposition was correct?” was the coroner’s next query. 

44 Certainly not!” answered Mr. Weare, with some 
warmth. 44 It was past eleven o’clock, and too late to in- 
trude upon the privacy of any ladies living alone. ” 

44 When did you speak to her last?” — hurriedly, feeling 
the rebuke that had just been administered. 


8 


HER OWH SISTER. 



“I spoke to her last ”— hesitatingly, and with a per 
ceptible tremor in his pleasant voice — “ in the afternoon, 
at rehearsal.” 

“ And you parted with her on good terms?” 

“ On the best of terms. She had promised to marry me 
within the month. ” 

There was such a sorrowful bitterness in his reply that 
the coroner felt it would be useless cruelty to press his in- 
quiries further. The contrast to him between the glowing 
hopes of the day before and the gloomy knowledge he at 
that moment possessed was painful enough without being 
brought home more closely. Only one other question was 
deemed necessary. 

“Do you know whose this is?” — holding out a small 
pistol for inspection so suddenly and so close to him that 
the young man shrunk back with almost a womanly cry of 
pain, while several near him shuddered in sympathetic hor- 
ror — for was it not the weapon that had robbed him of his 
promised wife? 

A delicate young girl who had been on the verge of tears 
since the proceedings began went into hysterics, and had 
to be carried out of court. When the excitement had sub- 
sided, the question was repeated, and Mr. Weare, having 
recovered himself in the interim, was able to give a com- 
posed reply. 

“ It is a Derringer. I have seen dozens like it. ” 

One of the jurymen here objected that the answer was 
not a direct one to the question; but the objection was 
waived as unimportant. 

One of the men employed at the theater then deposed to 
having seen the two Misses Warrington leave together, and 
that about half an hour later Mr. Weare drove up, passed 
into the theater without speaking, but, as he came out 
again, asked him if Miss Ada Warrington had left. On 
hearing that she had departed with her sister, he sent away 




HER OWN SISTER. 


9 


his brougham, and expressed the intention of walking 
home. 

The manager of the theater said that the two Misses 
Warrington had been engaged by him four or five months 
before. They were very quiet and reserved. 

On being asked if they had had any admirers whom it 
had been found necessary to discourage, he hesitated a mo- 
ment. 

44 You see, sir, their position was a very unusual one,” 
he answered slowly at last. 44 Every one knew who they 
were, they acted under their own name, and had swell 
friends to back them up. I don't say they hadn't bouquets 
and verses sent to them anonymously, but I don't think 
they had any disagreeable adventure until — until — " 

44 Until when?" the coroner interposed, keenly. 

44 It is about a month ago," continued the manager, 
44 since Miss Elaine came to me in a great rage, and nearly 
threw up her engagement. Some one, she said, had fol- 
lowed them home, spoken to them in spite of their persist- 
ent coldness, and would have continued his impertinence 
had not a policeman fortunately come up and freed them 
from the annoyance. She was just furious when I told her 
that things of that sort must be expected in the profession 
which she and her sister had adopted, and wanted to can- 
cel their engagements on the spot, till I suggested a 
remedy." 

44 What was that?” asked the coroner, with a half smile. 

44 1 recommended her to buy a pistol, and use it if neces- 
sary." 

44 And she did that?" 

44 Yes." 

There was a breathless silence in the room, during which 
the coroner once more lifted the pistol from the table in 
front of him. Before, however, he had time to frame a 
question the witness broke out impetuously — 

44 Yes, it was a Derringer; but there are hundreds of 


10 


HER OWN SISTER. 


them, and — Let me have it in my hand. Merciful 
Heaven, it is the same! I know it by the dent upon the 
silver stock. The first time she fired it off she was fright- 
ened by the explosion and let the pistol drop. ” 

“ And never took it in her hand again ?” said the coro- 
ner quickly, anxious to dispel at once the painful impres- 
sion caused by the last words. 

The manager remained silent. 

44 Did she ever fire it again?” 

44 Before a week had passed she was as good a shot as I 
who taught her. She had a capital eye and wonderful 
nerve for a woman. ” 

44 Ah, that was at a target or mark of some sort! Is it 
your belief that she would have raised it against — against 
her unwelcome admirer, for instance?” 

“ I — I don't know. It is impossible to say.” 

44 Did she ever say what she would do if such a con- 
tingency occurred?” 

44 I asked her once whether she thought she could use it 
if occasion offered, and she said — ” 

44 What did she say?” 

‘ 4 It is scarcely fair to answer when, as must be expected 
in such a case, the lightest words are apt to bear a deadlv 
significance.” 

44 To withhold any knowledge you possess will do no good, 
and is a punishable offense,” the coroner reminded liifn 
coldly. 

She said, 4 1 should use it without compunction were I 
so insulted again, and aim at the heart.' ” 

A shiver of repulsion seemed to pass simultaneously 
through the occupants of the room, as though they were of 
one body as well as of one mind. Every one remembered 
where the dead girl had received her hurt, and scarcely 
one doubted now but that her sister had fired the fatal 
shot. The manager of the theater was motioned to stand 
down. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


11 


Mrs. Bay, the landlady of the house where the two girls 
had lodged, was then called. 

The coroner's first question to her seemed to have no 
reference to what he had just heard. 

“ The two Misses Warrington have occupied your rooms 
since their father died, I believe?" he began; and the gar- 
rulous tongue of the landlady, never difficult to unloose, 
needed no further stimulus. It was evident that she at 
least was not unwilling to disclose all she knew. 

The sisters had been most desirable lodgers, had given 
very little trouble and received no visitors, though they 
went out a great deal to big parties, she believed. They 
had lots of lovers, no doubt; but none ever came to the 
house. Miss Elaine was especially particular in that re- 
spect, though she had often heard Miss Ada laugh at her 
about it, and call her a prude. Several times gentlemen 
had called, but had been denied. Mr. Weare had been ad- 
mitted only during the last week, from which she had 
surmised that he and one of the young ladies were going 
to make a match of it. 

“ Bid you also guess which of them it was?" put in the 
coroner, quietly. 

“No; that I could never make out. The young ladies 
always went about together; and even when Mr. Weare 
accompanied them they never separated. He often sent 
flowers and books or music, but they were pretty equally 
divided, as I happen to know, for, tidying up their room, 
I couldn't help seeing the bits of paper that had come with 
them, and sometimes it would be Miss Warrington's name 
upon them, and sometimes Miss Ada's. " 

“ And the young ladies were on good terms always, never 
had a serious disagreement, though I suppose they had 
words sometimes — " 

Mrs. Bay broke in hastily on the coroner's gently in- 
terrogative remark — 

“ They were not a bit like that; Miss Elaine, though she 


[ 


12 HER OWN SISTER. 

was a bit proud and particular, was always good to her 
sister; and Miss Ada was so good-tempered and cheery, 
nothing could put her out. They never had a quarrel while 
they were with me — leastways not to my knowledge — until 
last Friday evening, and that must have been something 
more than ordinary, for they did not speak to each other 
again after that, except when they were actually obliged, 
though I am sure they were dying to make it up. Miss 
Elaine went about looking so sad, I expect the tears were 
pretty near her eyes at times; and Miss Ada felt it too, 
I'm sure, for all she'd go singing about the house, and toss 
her pretty head when her sister spoke to her." 

44 And you've no idea what caused this estrangement?" 
asked the coroner. 

“No," Mrs. Day replied; “I knew high words had 
passed between them by their manner. I was out that 
night, but Martha — that's the girl — said she heard one of 
them crying, and then Miss Ada went across the landing 
to her room, and stamped her foot in a regular passion, and 
called out to her sister, 4 You're jealous — that's what it is 
— jealous because he preferred me to you — ' " 

The coroner put up his hand to stay the current of her 
speech. 

44 Martha shall give her own evidence by and by. At 
what time did Miss Warrington come back last night?" 

44 About a quarter to twelve. She was looking dread- 
fully white and tired, and I told her she ought to go to bed 
at once; but, when she heard that Miss Ada had not come 
in, she said she'd wait up, and that I might go; then be- 
fore I'd got half-way upstairs, she called me down again, 
and said she'd walk a little way up the street to see if she 
could see her coming. It struck twelve as she went out. 
Then, after I'd waited a good bit, she came back looking 
whiter and more ghost-like than ever, and begged me to 
go with her toward the theater to see if we could meet Miss 
Ada. I went with her through the gardens, as she fancied 


HER OWN SISTER. 


13 


she’d most likely come through there, though it was the 
longest way; and I thought it odd. But she proved right 
enough, poor dear, for we had not got far before we saw 
the crowd; and then I knew something had happened, and 
so did Miss Elaine, for she caught hold of my arm and 
would not go on till I said it might be Miss Ada was hurt, 
and we’d better see. Then she came with me, and I called 
out for them to make way — for I felt certain somehow it 
was Miss Ada; and, when the poor young lady saw her 
sister lying there dead, she just gave a little moan, and 
fainted in my arms. We got a carriage that was passing 
and took her home; and directly she came to she asked to 
go to her sister, and has been by her bedside ever since — 
not shedding a tear, only watching her so sorrowful-like it 
would break your heart to see her. I made her drink a 
cup of tea this morning, and that’s all as has passed her 
lips; she seemed stunned like.” 

“ That will do,” said the coroner, abruptly; and, when 
the landlady had been ushered out, showing evident un- 
willingness to go, he summoned the next witness. 

This was Martha, Mrs. Day’s maid of all work. She 
confirmed all that her mistress had said. The two Misses 
Warrington were the nicest young ladies she had ever had 
anything to do with, and very fond of each other — indeed 
Miss Elaine was more like a mother than a sister to Miss 
Ada. They had had only one quarrel, and that was on 
Friday night. She was quite certain it was Friday, for 
that was the evening on which Mrs. Day always went to 
see her sister, who lived at the other end of the town. 

“ Did you know what the quarrel was about?” inquired 
the coroner. 

No, Martha did not know; but she could guess. It was 
about some young man, of course. Why? Why, because 
that was what girls always quarreled about; and she sup- 
posed young ladies were females as well as the “ likes ” of 
her. 


14 


fiER OWH SISTER* 


A smile flitted across the coroner's grave face. 

“ You are evidently well acquainted with the weaknesses 
of your sex. Now tell me — did you overhear anything on 
that night to make you think you had guessed right?" 

“ I heard only one thing, and that was something Miss 
Ada said. She said quite fierce-like, ‘ You're jealous be- 
cause he likes me better nor you.' " Then, triumphant- 
ly — “ I knew it was about Mr. Weare." 

“Were you up last night when Miss Warrington came 
in?" 

“ Not I. If you were on your two feet all day, you'd be 
glad enough to get to bed directly your work was over." 

“I'm sure I should, Martha," was the pleasant reply. 
“ And now will you go to Miss Warrington and tell her 
that we should like to speak to her in about half an hour?" 

The girl assented cheerfully and withdrew, satisfied that 
she had not allowed herself to be browbeaten or intimi- 
dated by her interrogator, as some of the neighboring serv- 
ants who had seen something of police-courts had predicted 
she would be. 

The testimony of the doctor was taken, and other wit- 
nesses were called to prove that the pistol found near the 
murdered girl had belonged to Elaine Warrington and had 
been carried by her constantly since she had obtained it, 
and that the two girls had been on bad terms with each 
other during the last week, though both had tried to con- 
ceal it. 

Nothing more important was elicited, and the faces of 
the spectators wore an expression of awed expectancy as, 
the last witness dismissed, the coroner, in a voice that he 
himself felt to be unusually solemn, called out the name 
of “ Miss Warrington." 


HER OWIN' SISTER. 


15 


CHAPTER II. 

A low murmur of sympathetic emotion ran through the 
room as the door opened and Elaine Warrington entered. 
Some of those present had never seen her before; others, 
as they eagerly followed the evidence against her, had for- 
gotten her youth and loveliness, and were impressed by 
them anew. For a moment at least every man and wom- 
an in the room believed her to be innocent. 

She came in slowly, yet with no hesitation or apparent 
dread of the ordeal before her — indeed she seemed scarcely 
to have grasped the idea that she would have to face so 
many people, for her dress — a rough black serge — was that 
in which she had walked home on the previous night, and 
her bright hair was pushed back from her face and 
gathered into a knot behind, evidently more to keep it 
from troubling her than with any thought of self -adorn- 
ment. The large gray eyes had a haggard and weary look, 
and seemed larger and more beautiful than ever by reason 
of the deep blue circles round them, caused by the long 
anxious night, during which she had neither slept nor 
wept. 

Yet never had she looked so lovely as now, in her dis- 
ordered dress, and utterly careless with respect to the im- 
pression she might make. . No wonder a sudden reaction 
of feeling set in as she stood there so utterly alone, her 
slim figure, in its dark garb, clearly defined against the 
pale-colored wall, the small white hands clasped loosely in 
front of her, half hidden in the folds of her thick gown! 

An elderly gentleman who had taken deep interest in the 
proceedings started forward eagerly and-- offered her his 
chair. 

She thanked him sweetly, if somewhat absently, but did 
not sit down. She stood behind it, resting her fingers on 


16 


HER OWN SISTER. 


the back rail; and to some of the spectators it seemed as 
though she were already in the prisoner's dock, standing 
on her trial. What would be her defense? 

The coroner put his first question. 

“ Miss Warrington, can you tell me the date of your 
sister's engagement to Mr. Weare?" 

She looked at him for the first time, and then slowly 
surveyed the jury, almost as though challenging the man's 
right to speak to her and her obligation to reply in pres- 
ence 6f so many people. The question was repeated with 
an emphasis which she could not disregard. 

“ Last Friday, I believe. It was then my sister told 
me." 

If her loveliness had already touched the hearts of those 
present, the sound of her voice completed the charm. It 
was low and sweet, yet so clear that it was audible at the 
furthest end of the room. As it rose and fell there was 
something exquisitely tuneful and caressingly tender in its 
cadence. Even the coroner, a man not overburdened with 
either sentimental feeling or culture, felt its power, and 
waited till the last echo had died away before he put his 
next question — 

“ And it came upon you as a surprise?" 

“ Y-e-s." 

“ You did not know that he thought of proposing to 
her?" 

“ N-o " — still with evident hesitation; and then, with a 
gleam of defiance — “ How should I?" 

“ Of course not. His attentions were, I believe, so 
equally divided that no one seems to have known for whom 
they were especially intended. Perhaps you yourself were 
also in the dark?" 

The blood rushed to the girl's face, and something ris- 
ing in her throat prevented an immediate rejoinder;, then 
she said, with simple dignity ignoring the wound to her 
modesty and pride — 


HER OWN SISTER. 


17 


ec I never thought about it, nor did Ada, till — till he 
spoke.” 

“You disapproved of the match?” 

“ That would have been rather a senseless thing on my 
part, don’t you think,” she returned, evasively, “ seeing 
that I had no power to prevent it? Besides, Mr. Weare 
was rich and well connected; it was more for his friends 
to object than for me. ” 

The reply, reasonable as it was, told against her. Its 
premeditation was too apparent. 

There was a perceptible change in the coroner’s manner 
as he continued his examination. 

“ Then what was the cause of your quarrel on Friday 
night?” 

The girl started nervously and bit her lip. 

“ Was it about Mr. Weare?” 

No reply; but throughout the small hurriedly formed 
court silence was taken to mean assent. 

“ I decline to tell you anything of a conversation that 
was strictly private,” she said at last, with an effort. 

“ I must warn you, in your own interests. Miss War- 
rington, that this silence is ill-judged, and may be misun- 
derstood,” said the coroner, severely. 

“ I am not afraid of what people may think or say. 
Anything I can tell you connected with my sister’s death I 
will certainly not withhold, but the conversation referred 
to occurred a week ago, and has nothing to do with it. ” 

Elaine’s manner was calm, firm, almost defiant. 

“ That you should allow us to judge,” suggested the 
cproner; but, when the girl maintained an obstinate 
silence, either from courtesy or from pity he refrained 
from pressing the question. 

“ This pistol is said to be yours,” he observed, changing 
the subject abruptly, and touching the weapon as he spoke. 

She stretched out her hand for it. 


18 


HER OWK SISTER. 


' “ Yes, it is mine/" she assented, after a very slight in- 
spection. “ Where did you find it?” 

“ Near the place where your sister was found dead last 
night.” 

The girl stared at him helplessly, the pallor of her face 
rendered yet more noticeable by the crimson of her parted 
lips and her dark be-ringed eyes. 

There was intense excitement, and the coroner could not 
resist a dramatic denouement He might defeat the end in 
view by placing her on her guard, but the odds with a 
nervous overwrought woman were in favor of a venture. 

“There is no doubt,” he declared, gravely, “that it 
was the instrument which caused your sister's death.” 

“ Oh, no — no — no!” 

She had fallen upon her knees, and sobbed rather than 
spoke the words in a paroxysm of horror — or was it fear? 
Her head was buried in her hands, so no one could see the 
expression of her face, for all present in the room were 
straining forward with a curiosity that overpowered every 
instinct of humanity and pity. 

The elderly gentleman who had offered her a chair on 
her first entrance came nearer to her, unnoticed in the 
general movement. 

“You lost it— mislaid it,” he said, in a low voice, as 
though speaking to himself, yet intending the remark for 
her. 

“ I must have left it at the theater last night!” she 
gasped, in a whisper, answering him perhaps— or was it 
merely a prompt adoption of his suggestion? 

“ I beg your pardon— may I request you to speak a little 
louder?” said the coroner. 

More composed now, the girl repeated what she had just 
said, but without uncovering her face. Had she guessed 
to what all these questions were leading, what was the ter- 
rible suspicion that was gradually growing and establish- 
ing itself in men's minds? 


HER OWN' SISTER. 


19 


ie Yet you had carried it habitually for nearly a month? 
How came you to forget it?” 

She raised her head and met his eyes with an effort. 

“ My sister was anxious to leave, and, in hurrying, I 
must have overlooked it. * ' 

“ Yet she had an appointment with Mr. Weare to wait 
for and drive home with him?” 

“ She did not tell me so.” 

“ Then you started from the theater together?” 

She was standing now once more, composed and self-re- 
liant, and merely answered by a bow. 

“ Then where and why did you part?” 

“ My sister wished to walk through the gardens.” 

“ And you refused to accompany her?” 

“ She did not ask me to do so.” 

“Were you in the habit of separating so?” 

“We had never done so before.” 

“And did you ask her her reason for wishing to go 
alone then?” 

Her lips .quivered piteously, as though through some 
sorrowful recollection. 


“ You know-some one has told you — that we had had 
a disagreement, ; she reminded the coroner, nervously. 

“ That was last Friday. It must have been a serious 
difference of opinion not to have righted itself quickly.” 

“ It was a serious difference of opinion.” 

“ Yet you decline to tell me its origin or cause?” 

“ Indeed — indeed it has nothing to do with the cause of 
my sister's death!” she protested, earnestly. 

4 c And there is no one that you know Who had reason to 
dislike her — who had sufficient motive, in fact, for com- 
mitting such a crime?” 

She shook her head in emphatic denial. 

“ There is no one — no one,” she replied, in a tone of 
such deep conviction that it seemed almost as though she 


20 


HER OWN SISTER. 


were anxious to persuade herself as well as those around 
her. 

“ And you were the last to see her alive?” observed the 
coroner, meditatively, not perceiving at the moment the 
full force and significance of his remark. 

But the young actress, with a woman’s natural quick- 
ness, saw her danger at once, and shrunk back trembling, 
her hands upraised as though to ward off a blow. 

“ Not — not the last!” she whispered, hoarsely. 

Her slight figure swayed reed-like to and fro, and her 
lovely eyes were raised imploringly to the man who stood 
before her as her judge. 

He corrected himself at once, his correction not entirely 
uninfluenced by her beauty and her pathetic look. 

“ 1 beg your pardon. Miss Warrington — I should have 
said the last person we know of as yet. May I ask at 
about what time you left the theater?” 

<c At eleven o’clock. My sister looked at her watch and 
told me that was the time.” 

One of the jurymen leaned forward and whispered some- 
thing in the coroner’s ear; and, acting apparently on the 
hint received, he continued — 

“ And, according to the evidence, you arrived at your 
house about an hour later? What is the time you allow 
yourself usually for the walk to or from the theater?” 

“ About a quarter of an hour.” 

“ Yet last night you took at least thrice as long?” 

“ I was walking up and down the street waiting for 
her.” 

“ And yet, when you went in, you asked if she had re- 
turned?” 

“ I — I thought I might have missed her.” 

The coroner’s face betrayed an amount of incredulity 
which he did not venture to express. 

“ That will do. Miss Warrington; I have no further in- 
quiries to make. I will not detain you any longer.” 


HER OWN SISTER. 21 

c< May I go?” she aSked, with an eagerness tinged 
slightly with surprise. 

“Yes, you may go.” 

She turned to leave the room with a lighter tread and a 
more erect bearing than those with which she had entered 
it. At the door she half turned and surveyed the crowd of 
which she had been the central figure. Her slow gaze 
rested last upon the gentleman who had twice come to her 
assistance. Then, with a deep sigh of relief, she with- 
drew. 

Though the tide of public opinion had wavered, even 
turned once or twice as the inquiry proceeded, there was 
not one person now in the room but thought her guilty; 
yet when she had gone no one hastened to express his 
opinion to his neighbor. The sympathy she excited over- 
came the first strong feeling of righteous indignation. 
Every one was hoping that others had been less clear- 
sighted, and that some strong doubt might prevent the 
coroner from putting their conviction into words. She 
was so young, so lovely, so weak and womanly — could any 
one have the heart to condemn her to a cruel death, or a 
still more cruel incarceration with others more hardened, 
more accustomed to crime? And she had had so strong a 
provocation! Every one joined in blaming Gerald Weare 
for his culpable hesitation between the two sisters and 
tardy declaration of his intentions. And who knew but 
that on that fatal night, in her light-hearted carelessness, 
Ada might once again have taunted her sister with being 
jealous of her triumph, and drawn her doom upon her- 
self? 

What would the jury decide? Would the guilt be fixed 
upon any one now, or the verdict be delayed till the police 
had collected further facts? It was a fearful thing to ac- 
cuse any woman of so terrible a crime without strong un- 
questionable proofs. . No mere circumstantial evidence 
could justify such an act. 


22 


HEK OWN SISTER. 


Whether from some such consideration or from pure 
compassion, the verdict given was the simple one, “ Will- 
ful murder against some person or persons unknown;* * 
and, curiously enough, though it clashed with the opinion 
of most present, riot a word of dissent was heard. The 
crowd dispersed with wonderful quietude; only two or 
three, with bated breath, whispered the different conclu- 
sion to which they had been forced to come. But for the 
present it was all over; no more could be done now, what- 
ever might happen later. In a few minutes the room was 
almost empty. 

As the chief of the police, who had been watching the 
case, turned away after a short, low-toned, discussion with 
the coroner, the elderly gentleman who was apparently in- 
terested in the case of the suspected girl came up and ad- 
dressed him. 

“ What is to be the next move?** he asked, carelessly. 

“A bad one for the poor girl, I am afraid. The evi- 
dence against her is too strong to be ignored.** 

‘ ‘ Circumstantial !** — despairingly. 

“ Well, all evidence of the kind is, more or less. It is 
not often that any one actually sees a murder committed. 
It seemed scarcely fair to question her to-day; for she 
hardly attempted a defense. She was on her trial without 
the benefit of a lawyers advice, and she seemed to be 
scarcely aware that she was not obliged to incriminate her- 
self.** 

“ You believe her to be the murderess?** 

“Iam reluctant to say so much after the verdict pro- 
nounced; but any one might have been moved by the girl*s 
beauty and helpless position.** 

“ Give me your opinion— in confidence,** requested the 
other, with a strange persistence. 

“ Well > if 1 must say the truth, I have no doubt in my 
own mind but that under strong provocation— for that 
young fellow behaved shamefully, and was not half shown 


HER OWN SISTER. 


23 


up as he ought to have been to-day — Elaine Warrington 
was the murderess, the motive being jealousy.” 

The elderly gentleman muttered something unintelligi- 
ble and hurried away. Once in the hall, he looked round 
cautiously, and, finding himself unobserved, took the turn- 
ing not toward the street-door, but toward the stairs which 
led to the upper landing where the two sisters had dwelt 
for five months together, and where now the living kept 
her sad watch by the dead. 

* * * * * * * 

The next morning conjecture became certainty, for 
Elaine Warrington had disappeared as completely as 
though she had never been in Sydney; and such an escape 
could be viewed only as a confession of guilt. She had 
not dared to stay and stand her trial. 

A ship had left on the evening before for London, and 
another in the early morning for Ostend; but no one an- 
swering to her description had embarked, and subsequent 
inquiries gave no clew. 

The landlady and the servant had both supposed her to 
be in her sister's room, or at any rate declared so. 
Whether they had assisted her in her flight or had really 
known nothing about it could not be discovered. 

The one fact remained, that Ada Warrington was dead, 
and Elaine, her supposed murderess, had fled, none knew 
whfther; and her friends could only hope that’ her where- 
abouts might remain unknown, for a warrant was out for 
her apprehension, and her capture would have meant a 
concluding act to the drama far too terrible for any to 
desire. 

The two sisters had trodden the stage for the last time. 
Next season others would take their places, and in their 
turn delight the patrons of the drama. 


24 


HER OWN SISTER. 


CHAPTER III. 

A wintery sun was sinking behind a belt of leafless trees 
one afternoon in February when the newly installed mas- 
ter of Gorst Abbey left his stately home, to which he still 
felt strange and unaccustomed, and sauntered slowly 
through the grounds of the estate in the direction of the 
Dower House. 

Until three months before George Severn had been 
second in command of a Bengal cavalry regiment, and 
had in consequence spent the best part of his life in India. 
As a subaltern he had married on his pay, and, though his 
wife had not lived to see the anniversary of their wedding- 
ddy, she left him an infant son for whom it was necessary 
to economize and amass as many rupees as practicable. 
For his sake he had denied himself all the luxuries and . 
many of what by some are deemed the necessaries of life. 
His devotion to his child had been touching to witness; 
yet, though the boy was naturally winning and made many 
friends who had been glad to be good to him, if only for 
the sake of attracting the handsome widower, none of them 
by these attentions had managed to reach the father's 
heart. He was grateful — deeply grateful — to them for 
their kindness; but to his partial eyes it seemed as though 
such kindness bore its own reward in the prettily lisped 
thanks and somewhat easily won affection of the child on 
whom it was lavished. Nor did it ever strike him that he 
needed some one to help him to take care of his idol. He 
taught him to walk and talk, and by and by to ride on a 
miniature pony; and, when he needed to learn more than 
these simple acquirements, it was the devoted father who 
taught him still. 

Always in his sight, the baby had almost imperceptibly 


HER, OWN SISTER. 


25 


merged into a tall pale boy some nine years old before 
Captain Severn began to realize that they, hitherto in- 
separable, must part — not for a few months, as had been 
the case before, when it was necessary that the child should 
escape from the burning heat of the plains, and his father 
had not been able to get leave, but it might be for years. 

The blow, terrible as it was at first, grew harder for the 
lonely man to bear as little by little they drifted further 
and further apart in spite of the constant correspondence 
they kept up. After a few years at a preparatory school, 
the lad had gone to Harrow, and had made many friends 
there, while amongst new interests he had half forgotten 
the love which had colored all his life before. 

The father felt with a twinge of pain that he might 
meet his son — his son to whom for nine years he had been 
all in all — in the street and not recognize him, though his 
whole soul yearned for him and he was never absent from 
his thoughts. He had given him the love of a life-time — 
the deep strong love of a man which in most cases is 
divided, but in this case had been shared by none other; for 
his wife he had married from pity, because they told him 
she loved him, and would waste away if he offered no re-, 
turn. So he cared for the little fragile thoughtless child 
as tenderly as a woman could have done during the few 
short months she was with him, and even felt a faint sense 
of loneliness when she was gone. But that passed away; 
the one abiding passion of his manhood was to lavish all 
his love upon his son. 

Then a cousin died — a man whom he had never met — 
indeed had scarcely heard of in the years he had spent 
away from home, but who had nevertheless left him the 
property of Gorst Abbey. 

It was a splendid estate, but the last owner had led a 
wild extravagant life, and at present it was heavily mort- 
gaged. George Severn's first thought was to clear off all 
the debts, so that the property might recover itself and bo 


2(5 


HER OWN SISTER. 


at its highest value when it should descend to his heir. 
To this end he had devoted all his savings, for this reason 
he had resolved to let the Dower House, and since his 
accession had been living as quietly as possible in his new 
home. 

His son had left Harrow a year before, and was now 
abroad with a tutor; eventually he was to become a bar- 
rister — for Colonel Severn was too wise to allow him to 
lead an aimless life. Father and son had met once since 
their first parting, now twelve years back; but to George 
Severn the meeting caused at first an even deeper feeling 
of sadness than the separation had done. They were utter 
strangers to each other, the very effort to be at ease one 
with the other occasioning a greater restraint. The young 
fellow had made no allowance for the change sure to be 
effected by so long a residence in an unhealthy climate; he 
was disappointed and sensibly chilled at meeting one so 
much older and graver than the father he remembered; 
while the elder man looked in vain for those traits of 
character, the little tricks of expression, that he had noted 
and been so proud of before. 

He was proud of his son still, and had good cause for 
that pride — thank Heaven! — but there was a barrier be- 
tween them that nothing could remove. His love for him 
was as great as ever, for it was too strong to be easily up- 
rooted— and few people met Charlie Severn without being 
favorably impressed by his pleasant boyish manner and 
handsome face; but the love no longer filled his life, was 
no longer all-sufficient. He felt lonely and sorrowful- 
lonelier, in spite of neighbors who made every effort to be 
sociable, than he had ever been when shut up in his Indian 
bungalow day after day through the long hot weather, and 
more sorrowful even than when he had sent away his child, 
ffhen he had had hope to sustain him, and fond imaginings 
to take the place of reality. How he knew the truth— 
knew that the fruit whose growth he had so eagerly antici- 


HER OWN SISTER. 


27 


pated had, in spite of its fair appearance, crumbled to 
ashes in his month. 

As he stood on the threshold of the door of the Dower 
House, and turned his face to where the sun had set, the 
after-glow shed its red light upon him, and showed clearly 
the dark steadfast eyes and well- cut mouth with the deep 
lines of anxiety about them. His complexion was sallow, 
his mustache dark, but his hair was nearly white, which, 
with his tall broad figure and military bearing, gave him 
a most distinguished appearance. He was a man who 
would have attracted attention anywhere. 

On this particular day his new tenant was expected — 
Mr. Bowyer by name — an Australian lawyer who, having 
made his fortune, wished to come and spend the last years 
of his life in the mother-country. The Anglo-Indian felt 
a warm sympathy for him, for both had been exiled from 
early youth, and both probably had the same feeling of 
alienation engendered by long absence. 

It was this event that had caused Colonel Severn to 
walk over so that he might be there when the traveler 
arrived and accord him at least a stranger’s welcome. He 
had had the house put thoroughly in order; and the fire- 
light shining through the window gave the place so home- 
like and bright a look that he found it in his heart to wish 
he had taken up his residence there, and had let the big 
rambling mafision he inhabited now, which seemed so 
empty and so cheerless. However, Charlie would be 
there soon, and his young presence would infuse a little life 
into the place. 

A hired vehicle drove along the road and stopped at the 
gate, the driver waiting for instructions. The door of the 
conveyance was opened, and an old man stepped slowly 
out, and then turned to offer his assistance to some one in- 
side; 

Colonel Severn’s first impulse was to draw back and 
make his way home unobserved, The man was not 


HER OWN SISTER. 


28 

alone, not so friendless as he had imagined, and might 
even look upon his presence there as an intrusion rather 
than an act of courtesy. 

An elderly woman, apparently a superior sort of house- 
keeper, got out, and immediately began to give directions 
to the driver in a shrill overbearing voice that grated on 
the colonel’s ears, and afterward came a tall slim girl in 
deep mourning, with uncovered head, holding her hat in 
her hand. She stood a little way apart, absently brushing 
the dust from her dress, taking no interest in the matters 
that were being discussed, not even looking round to see 
what manner of place was this, her new home. 

Colonel Severn, after a few moments’ hesitation, stepped 
forward. 

“ Mr. Bowyer, I presume?” he said, pleasantly, and 
raised his hat. “Iam Colonel Severn; my own house is 
close to this; and I thought I would come over to see if I 
could be of any use. ” 

The Australian was pleased at the attention, acknowl- 
edging his appreciation in his reply; and the two gentle- 
men turned toward the house, talking as they went. 

The young girl still stood alone, apparently abstracted, 
until the housekeeper broke into her reverie with a loud 
laugh. 

“ Dreaming again, Miss Ellen? I don’t believe you 
even noticed Mr. Bowyer had gone in. He’ll be calling 
for you directly.” 

The remark was perhaps meant in kindness; if so, the 
woman’s expression did not do justice to her intention, for 
a disagreeable flash came from beneath her eyelids, and 
she who was addressed winced perceptibly. 

“I’ll go to him now,” she answered hurriedly, and 
moved away. 

The housekeeper watched her as she went. 

“ Yes, I am certainly right,” she muttered to herself. 

“ She has got a secret— a secret that weighs on her night 


HER OWN SISTER. 


29 


and day, and would ruin her if found out. At hotels 
and constantly on the move, I have had no chance of dis- 
covering what it is — she has kept so much by herself; but 
here in this quiet place she will be olf her guard. She 
shall never stand in my shoes if I can get a chance to oust 
her! It would be hard if ten years' faithful service were 
to be forgotten for this new fancy. It shall never be — 
never if I can help it!" 

She screwed her thin lips together and clinched her 
hands in fierce determination, then the next moment 
showed the power of. dissimulation that she possessed by 
turning toward the servant who came running briskly 
from the house, and giving her the necessary orders about 
the luggage in a composed manner that showed nothing of 
the jealous wrath she really felt. Formerly she had been 
undisputed mistress of Mr. Bowyer's house, and, being a 
connection of his, had half ignored the fact that she was 
his housekeeper as well, with no other source of income 
than the wages she received. 

She had been a bar-maid in Montreal, where Mr. Bow- 
yer's younger brother first met her, and, falling desperate- 
ly in love with her, married her. He had lived only a few 
years — though long enough to repent his infatuation — and 
had left her so well provided for that she had had no diffi- 
culty in finding a second husband. From the crowd of 
needy adventurers who soon surrounded her she chose an 
Italian named Priolo, some years younger than herself, 
crafty and unscrupulous, scarcely even pretending to re- 
turn the affection she professed for him. They were mar- 
ried, and a month later he absconded, taking with him her 
whole fortune, which he had managed to have transferred 
to his own hands. She was left so utterly destitute that 
no course remained but to write to the brother of her first 
husband and state her claim to his pity. 

He answered by offering her the situation of house- 
keeper, which she gladly accepted, meaning in time to 


30 


HER OWN SISTER. 


sink the menial position in the more honorable one of sis- 
ter-in-law and natural mistress of his house. At first she 
may have had thoughts of inducing him to marry her, but 
these she was reluctantly compelled to abandon in the 
early days of their acquaintance; and she soon found that 
it would be more difficult to carry out her plans than she 
had expected. The rough life that the Australian settler 
had led, though it had rendered his manners blunt and his 
tastes less fastidious, had not quite deadened the natural 
instincts of his order; when there was none of his own 
class with whom he could associate, he preferred solitude 
to uncongenial companionship. It was as the quondam 
bar-maid of Montreal, his present housekeeper, and not as 
his brother’s widow, that he treated Mrs. Priolo; and she 
was too keen-sighted not to perceive this, and too clever 
to attempt openly to thwart his course of action. 

She had been with him nearly nine years, when, after a 
severe illness, through which she had nursed him with ex- 
emplary fortitude and care, Mr. Bowyer determined to 
make his will, and summoned a lawyer for that purpose. 
During the interview, which was a long one, the house- 
keeper, unable to control her curiosity, crept noiselessly 
upstairs, and stood for awhile with her ear to the key- 
hole. What she heard amply repaid her for her patience. 

“ To Harriet Priolo. She is my sister-in-law as well as 
my housekeeper — the only connection I have in the 
world,” the old man said; and the woman went back to 
her room trembling with excitement. Once more she 
would possess wealth; and the next time she would know 
how to keep it. 

After that illness Mr. Bowyer realized his fortune with 
the intention of returning to his native land. Mrs. Priolo 
accompanied him to Sydney, their passages being already 
taken in a ship bound for Marseilles. On the day before 
they were to sail the old man went out on business, but he 
never came back to the hotel, Mrs. Priolo received a let- 


HER OWN SISTER. 


31 


ter from him the next day, however, saying that he had 
been unexpectedly called away, and inclosing money for 
her expenses until he should write to her to join him. 
This he did three months later; but great was the house- 
keeper’s disgust to find that she no longer ruled alone — 
that a young lady in deep mourning, introduced to her as 
“ Miss Ellen Warde — my niece,” had been with him dur- 
ing her absence. 

Since then they had traveled about together, never stay- 
ing long in one place, and shunning society in a way that 
was natural enough to Mr. Bowyer, but seemed strange in 
so young a girl as Miss Warde. It might have been ac- 
counted for by her evidently recent loss; but Mrs. Priolo 
felt a spiteful conviction that this was not the only rea- 
son. 

There was some mystery, and it should be the business 
of her life to find it out. She remembered well his words 
— ‘‘the only connection I have in the world;” and now 
this niece had appeared from Heaven knew where? In 
the relationship she did not believe one whit; and the girl 
scarcely attempted to keep up the fiction, for she seldom 
called him “uncle,” and then always in an apologetic 
tone which contradicted her own words. 

But, whatever the link between the two, it was a close 
one, for the old man was evidently fond of her, and she 
spent her whole time — all the time at least that was not 
given to dreaming — in striving to afford him pleasure. 
She sung to him, read to him, always found him the latest 
newspaper, and secured for him on all occasions the most 
comfortable seat with a devotion that put the housekeep- 
er’s somewhat mechanical servitude completely in the 
shade. Mr. Bowyer turned to Miss Ellen for everything, 
and Mrs. Priolo was kept more strictly than ever in the 
place he had assigned to her. 

Growing more uneasy day by day over the change of 
affairs, it became a lively source of dread to her whether 


HER OWN SISTER. 


32 

this girl might not supplant her in the future as well as in 
the present. Would she succeed to the old man’s money 
at his death? Not if she—Harriet Priolo— could prevent 
it! 

“ It shall never be so — never !” she said to herself with 
ever-increasing vehemence, as in the gathering darkness 
she looked toward the house which in the future was to be 
their home. 


CHAPTER IV. 

As Miss Warde entered the sitting-room, both gentlemen 
stood up to greet her, and Mr. Bowyer introduced her to 
his landlord with the customary formula — 

“ My niece. Miss Warde.” 

With a fleeting smile she acknowledged Colonel Severn’s 
deep bow and pleasantly spoken words, then busied herself 
about the old man’s comfort, taking a cushion from the 
sofa and placing it on his chair, pushing a foot-stool toward 
him, and then stooping to stir the fire. The flames leaped 
up and threw a bright glow upon her face, causing the 
dark gray eyes to gleam and giving color to her lips and 
cheeks. Her flaxen hair, which she wore in boyish fashion* 
cut close to her head, shone like threads of gold in the 
light, all the more from contrast with the soft black crape 
gown that she wore, unrelieved by even a speck of white. 

44 How lovely she would be if she were happier!” thought 
George Severn as he gazed at her, for the smile that had so 
swiftly illumined and then passed from her face had only 
served to impress more clearly upon him its habitual sad- 
ness. Surely some great grief must have entered her life 
to turn all the natural gayety and hopefulness of youth to 
such all-absorbing sorrow; or the loss she had evidently 
sustained was of very recent date, and this was the first 
violence of despair! 


HER OWN SISTER. 


33 


** I wonder if you will like Littlehaven?” he began, ad- 
dressing her abruptly, and, in the deep interest he felt, un- 
conscious that he had left a remark of Mr. Bowyer *s unan- 
swered. 

“ Oh, I think so! Why should I not?” 

“ I hope there will be no reason. It is dull perhaps— 
very little society — ” 

“ My niece does not care for going out,” put in Mr. 
Bowyer. 

“ There are some lovely walks and drives; and the gar- 
den will give you a little occupation.” 

“ Is there a garden?” she asked, indifferently. 

Mr. Bowyer looked at her somewhat impatiently. 

“ My dear Ellen, you passed through it as ypu came in 
— a charming garden, and so well cared for — quite a blaze 
of crocuses already!” 

The girl flushed crimson. She turned toward Colonel 
Severn with a pretty deprecating gesture, as though con- 
scious of and apologetic for a fault. 

“ It was growing dark when I came in, and I was think- 
ing of other things; but I remember a sweet scent of vio- 
lets— and were there not some snow-drops as well? I am 
very fond of flowers.” 

The last remark was one that Colonel Severn had heard 
some dozens of times during his life, and had always con- 
sidered an inevitable commonplace in the mouth of a 
young lady; but it fell with an entirely new significance 
from her lips, and he was glad she had shown^him one way 
by which he could gratify her tastes. 

“ Then you must not pluck the few you have here. I 
will send you a basket every day from the Abbey— enough 
to decorate your house.” 

She thanked him with a glance, understanding his in- 
tention to be kind, and feeling grateful to him for it. 

The hands of the small traveling-clock which Mr. Bow- 
yer had placed on the mantel-piece were pointing to six 


34 


HER OWN SISTER. 


o'clock; the visitor rose to take his leave, feeling that he 
had no longer any excuse for remaining. 

A cordial hand-shake from the Australian, a smile from 
his niece, and George Severn was alone outside, walking 
rapidly toward the Abbey, shrinking as he had never done 
before from the lonely grandeur that awaited him, and 
realizing how utterly unlike it was to any preconceived idea 
he might once have had of home. Ah, well, when Charlie 
came, it would be different! But how lonely that girl was! 
What could be the cause of such poignant, apparently all- 
engrossing grief? — for that * it was no ordinary trouble he 
could not fail to guess. Whenever she was not actually 
speaking, her thoughts seemed to wander far away to some 
painful incident in the past, the memory of which caused 
the dark eyes to open wide and the color to recede even fur- 
ther from her cheeks. She was a mystery — a mystery well 
worth studying. 

“ I wonder what Charlie will think of her?" he thought; 
and then another question presented itself which made him 
draw his breath hard and a dark flush suffuse his sallow 
fare even in the darkness— “ What would she think of 
Charlie?" 

In the meantime, at the Dower House, Mrs. Priolo, who, 
with all her faults, was certainly an excellent manager, 
had reduced the chaos of the traveler's luggage to at least 
a semblance of order, and was now superintending cooking 
arrangements below. 

Mr. Bowyer and his niece were seated together before the 
fire, the former looking idly over a newspaper the contents 
of which he had already mastered in the train, the latter, 
making no pretense at occupation, seated on a low stool, 
with her elbows on her knees, her head resting on her 
hands, staring at the glowing embers that burned brightly 
beneath an upper crust of coal. Suddenly dropping his 
paper, her companion startled her by taking up the poker 
and thrusting it into the fire, so that the fairy-like cavern 


HEJ& OWN SISTEIi. 


35 


into which she had been gazing was destroyed, and dark- 
ness and brightness intermingled lost the beauty they had 
possessed in contrast. 

The girl called Ellen Warde looked up and sighed. 

44 Do you want anything, Mr. Bowyer?” 

44 No, no!” — testily. 44 Why don't you call me 4 uncle '? 
It makes people talk when I introduce you as my niece* 
and yet you always call me by my formal name." 

* 4 1 forget, sir. It is not because I do not love you and 
am not grateful for your goodness. If that were all, I 
might call you 4 father 9 — and it would be no untruth, for 
no parent could have done more for me than you.” 

44 Nonsense, child! Why do you go back to that? Has 
anything happened to-night to make you recall what is 
past and done with?” 

She shook her head. 

44 It is coming here, I think — settling down at last after 
more than a year of hotels and lodgings. The last home I 
had was before my father died ; and we lived together — oh, 
so peacefully and happily! — without even a presentiment of 
the dreadful tragedy to come." 

44 And here too you may be peaceful and happy," he 
suggested, with a gentleness that contrasted greatly with 
his usually blunt unsympathetic manner. 

She stood up excitedly and pushed away the stool on 
which she had been seated. 

44 Peaceful,” she repeated, with almost an accent of 
scorn — 4 4 peaceful, with the constant fear of detection 
hanging over me! And how can I be happy, remorseful 
as I am?” 

He looked at her keenly, and in his turn repeated a word 
that she had used, and which aroused a doubt he was half 
afraid to acknowledge. 

44 Remorseful!” 

She was pacing the room with quick uneven steps, her 
arms first across her breast, then thrown behind her, as 


36 


HER OWN SISTER. 


though she were striving to cast from her the thoughts that 
tormented her. 

11 My own sister!” she cried, passionately. “ Oh, it 
would have been better, far better, had I stayed and — and 
met the worst than escaped for this!” 

“ Do you blame me for the part I took in your escaper” 

She sunk down upon her knees beside him and looked 
up into his face with something of the mute devotion of a 
dog. 

“ Can I ever forget,” she said, “that dreadful day 
when, still unnerved and terrified because of my sister’s 
cruel death, I came down to the inquiry? At first I 
scarcely noticed the crowd — I was rapt completely in my 
own sad thoughts; then, as question after question was put 
to me, each one more unfeeling than the last, I realized to 
what they were tending— what was the impression gradu- 
ally becoming general in the minds of those about me. 
The full horror of my situation burst upon me. I dared 
not raise my eyes for fear of meeting others bent upon me 
accusingly; to my excited fancy it seemed as though I 
actually heard my sentence passed behind me. Oh, if they 
had only fallen upon me then, killed me with their own 
hands, and so released me from my misery, I could have 
borne it; but I knew that weeks must pass before my fate 
would be decided, and that there was a worse ordeal in 
store for me when I had to stand upon my formal trial! 
Dor every eye that gazed at me with impunity then, there 
would be a hundred there; and for every tongue that spoke 
against me then, a hundred would condemn me there. How 
could I bear it? How could I elude it? I had had friends 
before, and lovers — at least, those who said they loved me 
~but none came to me in my sorrow. It was you, an 
utter stranger, who stood by me, and offered me the 
means of escape. Do I blame you for that? Ah, no, no! 
I bless you for it every day, every hour; it is only at times, 
in very bitterness, that I wish the end had come then!” 


HER OWN SISTER. 


37 


He was watching her intently, trying to read the truth 
in her wide-open tearless eyes and the painful trembling of 
her lips. Every day during the past eleven months the 
question had presented itself to him and been dismissed 
without a decisive reply — Was she guilty of the crime of 
which she had been suspected? 

Lawyer though he had been for so many years, and cog- 
nizant of many phases of human life, this he could not de- 
termine. He knew enough to understand that where a 
woman was concerned he knew nothing. Oftentimes in his 
professional career he had quoted words which he had read 
once — he could not remember where — and which had fixed 
themselves in his brain — 

1 ‘ She is a woman, and the ways unto her 
Are like the finding of a certain path 
After deep-fallen snow.” 

In this case he was quite at sea; but doubt must have 
predominated over the trust he was so often tempted to 
show, for he never asked the question, and she had never 
volunteered any information on the subject. Indeed this 
was the first time they had discussed it freely. 

“ I too remember that day,” he said, slowly. “ I had 
seen you once before at the theater; you were acting Gala- 
tea. You must have received many compliments respectr- 
ing your dramatic talent, so I will not add to the number. 
But your acting touched me as I had never been touched 
before, and, when you moved so sadly and silently back to 
the pedestal from which you had come, leaving to Cynisca 
the happiness of her husband's love, something as nearly 
like tears as anything my eyes have ever known was in 
them then. There was more than that to draw me to you 
. — a resemblance — faint, it is true, but recurring again and 
again with every change of voice and gesture — to some one 
I had known and — and loved, years — surely it must be cen- 
turies— ago! To her I had brought only sorrow. A few 
days after I had seen your performance I heard what had 


38 


HER OWN SISTER. 


happened. I made friends with the chief of the police, 
and managed to be present at the coroner's inquiry, with 
some vague idea of expiating my fault to her by being of 
use to you. Of course it was a mere chimera, an illusion; 
but the whole thing was romantic, I suppose, and utterly 
unlike what might be expected from one of my profession, 
which is more than usually cynical perhaps, more than 
usually hard. Yet I suppose we all have our weak spots 
somewhere; and you touched mine." 

Though he paused a moment, there came no reply. The 
slight figure crouched at his feet was trembling, and now 
and then there came a sobbing sound, as though it were 
only by an effort she restrained her tears. Her face was 
hidden from him. 

“ It was the wildest, most unlawyer-like idea that flashed 
into my mind as the evidence proceeded and you did not 
even attempt to defend yourself. I thought even you 
would laugh at me as a madman, or at least distrust my 
good intentions when I presented myself before you and 
proposed that you should come with me and make use of 
the passage which a day before I had taken for my house- 
keeper. But you trusted me completely, and accepted my 
help without any question whatever. A few theatrical 
properties that happened to be in your room rendered our 
plans easier, and the next morning found us steaming 
away from Sydney, away from all the troubles that had 
threatened you, unsuspected and unfollowed. " 

“ I remember," she whispered. “ Oh, the relief I felt 
as land gradually faded out of sight! It was not till many 
days later that I wondered why you had interested yourself 
in me. I was too thankful for the result to question its 
cause. " 

“ And now it scarcely appears strange to me at all," put 
in the old man softly. 44 The resemblance I spoke of 
seems to grow daily — or perhaps I imagine it. Your 
presence is a pleasure to me always. I like to watch you 


HER OWN, SISTER. 


39 


flitting about the bouse, and to know that you are looking 
after me as a daughter might have done if things had been 
different. My one wish now is to see you happier. Can’t 
you forget the past:” 

She shuddered, and was silent. 

“ Believe me, there is no fear of detection. If we had 
been fated to be discovered, it would have happened long 
ago.” 

44 Hundreds of people must have seen me at the theater,” 
she returned, hopelessly. 

44 A stage make-up is the most deceptive thing in the 
world. I scarcely recognized you myself on that day at 
the inquest. Besides, you are changed — wonderfully changed 
— since then; and the short hair makes a difference. But 
to return to what I was speaking of before. Ellen, why 
won’t you call me 4 uncle ’?” 

She blushed painfully, and avoided his gaze. 

44 1 would rather not,” she said, timidly — 44 though of 
course I will do so if you insist.” 

44 1 do not insist,” he interrupted, hastily. 44 But at 
least do not call me 4 sir,’ as though you were a depend- 
ent.” 

44 1 am dependent on your goodness. Do you think I 
am so mean-spirited as to be ashamed of it? You are so 
generous and kind that I have room only for gratitude in 
my heart — gratitude and love.” 

44 And don’t you think that repays me for anything I 
can do?” he asked, gently. 

She took his hand in hers and kissed it, then rose to her 
feet and turned away shyly, half afraid that he might con- 
sider it a liberty. 

44 What do you think of our landlord— neighbor as he 
will be too, I fancy?” asked Mr. Bowyer, changing the 
subject abruptly. 

44 1 think he seemed very pleasant and anxious to bo 
kind.” 


40 


HER OW,H SISTER. 


“ I thought him a capital fellow. There is no one after all 
so charming as a really thorough-bred English gentleman. 
I wonder if he is married?” 

“ Oh, no — I fancy not!” 

Mr. Bowyer smiled. He had noticed Colonel Severn's 
evident admiration of her, and was amused to find that, in 
spite of her abstraction and the indifference which had 
become habitual, she had apparently noticed it as well. 

“ I suppose dinner is nearly ready?” he observed a mo- 
ment later. 

“ I will see,” said Ellen, going to the door. 

As her fingers closed round the handle the door was 
opened hastily from the outside, and Mrs. Priolo faced 
her, with a half-apologetic, half-defiant expression, as 
though asserting her right to be there in such close prox- 
imity to the key-hole. 

“ I came to say dinner is ready when you wish for it, 
sir,” she said quickly. 

“ And I am ready for dinner,” replied the old man 
cheerfully, not having seen how suspiciously hurried was 
her entrance. 

But, if his sagacity was at fault, Ellen Warde's intelli- 
gence was quickened by fear — the nervous dread lest her 
secret should be discovered. She realized at once that 
Mrs. Priolo had been listening— her very explanation of 
her presence proved it, for qui s’ excuse s’ accuse. The 
only question was. How long had she been there — how 
much had she heard? After all, their conversation for the 
past ten minutes had been harmless enough, and the 
chances were against the housekeeper's having been long 
away from the kitchen, where, on the first day of their 
occupation, there would be so much to do. 

Ellen tried to reassure herself, but with little success. 
Ho argument could combat the nameless terror that had 
made the past eleven months so hard to bear. She feared 
nothing in particular, everything in general. The convic- 


HER OWN SISTER. 


41 


tion was rooted firmly iii her mind that some day, by some 
means, she would be discovered and compelled to stand 
her trial for the murder of her sister. 


CHAPTER Y. 

To Colonel Severn the next day seemed a very long one. 
It would be intruding, he felt, to call again on his new 
tenants so soon; and, besides, they would have plenty to 
do arranging things according to their taste. He won- 
dered how the sitting-room would look when he saw it 
again — whether it would be stamped with the unmistak- 
able signs of a woman's presence, and whether, from its 
appearance, he would be able to guess anything of that 
especial woman's individuality. That she was clever he 
was convinced, though as yet she had given no proof of 
mental power; and feminine, of course — that he could not 
doubt. She was so gentle, so graceful in every movement, 
and her voice — it was like music. He had never heard 
anything so exquisitely tuneful and sweet. 

That morning he sent over a large basket of hot-house 
flowers and fruit, and received a short note of thanks from 
Mr. Bowyer himself, to whom they had been addressed, a 
new feeling of shyness, utterly foreign to his nature, hav- 
ing prevented him from offering them direct to her for 
whom they were in reality intended. Then in the after- 
noon he walked in the direction of the Dower House, 
though not exactly past its gates, hoping to meet one of its 
occupants. 

Strangely enough, he did not at once guess to what all 
these symptoms tended. He was too unversed in the arts 
of love to know that he was coming — indeed had already 
come — under the influence of the mischievous little god. 
In his own mind he accounted for the interest that he took 
in the new arrivals by the fact that lately he had led a 
very lonely existence — and solitude must pall at last upon 


42 


HER OWN SISTER. 


the most unsociably inclined. When Charlie came, it 
would be different, he told himself again. The Abbey 
would become a home, and he would be independent of his 
neighbors. 

Twelve o’clock was the earliest hour at which he could 
go over on the following morning, he had decided, although 
this was not to be a formal call, but merely a renewed 
offer of help; and exactly at the stroke of the clock he 
started off. 

He walked quickly, but the way seemed so long that he 
branched off into a short cut that led through the park 
across a small ditch into the Dower House garden. Pass- 
ing over the soft grass, his footsteps fell almost noiselessly; 
and, as he came to where the trees were thickest, he heard 
a low sobbing sound, and stopped to discover what it was. 
Moving a few steps further on, he saw that it was the girl 
who had been so constantly in his thoughts since he made 
her acquaintance only two days before — Mr. Bowyer’s 
niece, with the sad smile and sweet voice. She was stand- 
ing with her face buried in her hands, weeping as though 
her heart would break, while every violent sob seemed to 
shake her slight figure so that it was pitiful to witness. 
So at least George Severn found it. 

He stood there for a moment hesitating what to do, 
trembling with excitement, the wish to help and comfort 
her struggling with the knowledge that any such desire 
was futile. How could he, a mere stranger, win her con- 
fidence or seek to calm her? With a heart full of sympa- 
thy, he could do nothing to console — indeed his very pres- 
ence there was an intrusion on her grief which she would 
resent if by any chance she saw him. 

At the mere thought of so drawing her displeasure down 
upon himself he turned hastily and walked away in the 
direction whence he had come. When he reached his des- 
tination — going the longer way by the road, and with 
slower steps, now that the inducement which had caused 


HER OWN SISTER. 


43 


him to hasten them was gone — he received a cordial wel- 
come from Mr. Bowyer, who had also felt the long quiet 
day in the country drag after the more stirring life to 
which he had been accustomed. 

For nearly an hour they talked together, finding many 
subjects in common; then a light step was heard outside, 
and Ellen Warde entered the room. 

She bowed and smiled in answer to Colonel Severn's 
somewhat confused greeting. Not a trace was on her face 
of the strong emotion which she had successfully over- 
come. It was Colonel Severn who was ill at ease and be- 
wildered. 

Mr. Bowyer began to talk about a sketch which Ellen 
was to make that afternoon, and to discuss the point from 
which it should be taken, so their visitor had leisure to re- 
cover himself and look round. 

The room was altered, yet less so than he expected. 
Nothing new had been put into it — none of the little favor- 
ite knickknacks which women carry about with them to 
give even the bare-looking rooms of a hotel a semblance of 
home. They had brought absolutely nothing with them 
except an easel, on which was a painting, evidently just 
completed, being scarcely dry. But there was a subtle 
change, more to be felt than defined ! 

A few chairs that had stood with their backs to the wall 
were drawn forward, small tables were placed more with a 
view to being of use, flowers were everywhere, filling every 
available vase and bowl, while lying on an ottoman was 
something white with a needle sticking in it, a reel of cot- 
ton and a thimble by its side. 

These things he noted in one swift glance; then he 
turned and joined in the conversation. 

“ You are quite an artist, Miss Warde. I have no pret- 
tier picture on my wails than that upon your easel now, 
though some are by famous men. The river sparkling in 
the sun, as it winds its way through an orange-grove, is 


44 


HER OWN SISTER. 


charming; and the girl bathing her feet is a picture in 
herself, with her bright clothes and basket of flowers laid 
beside her. ‘ Summer in Italy 9 — the mere thought of it 
is a pleasure . 99 

The girl looked pleased at his appreciation. 

“ I am so glad you think it pretty! It was only a sketch 
at first, but Mr. Bowyer liked it, so I filled it in and made 
a picture of it. I am very fond of painting. It absorbs 
one so — 99 She stopped abruptly: “ And makes one for- 
get for awhile,” she had been about to add; then, sud- 
denly remembering that she was talking to an utter stran- 
ger, “ 6 Summer in Italy 9 — that is a pretty name for it,” 
she added, quickly. 

Colonel Severn stayed to luncheon with them, but left 
almost immediately afterward. He had business letters to 
write, and shut himself up in his study to finish them 
directly he reached home. But he found his thoughts ; 
wandering very often, and a face coming between him and 
the paper scattered all his ideas. It was always the same 
face, yet in different moods. Ellen Warde smiling, Ellen 
Warde in tears, or inscrutable as a sphinx, with far-seeing 
absent eyes and parted speechless lips. 

What was the fascination she possessed for him — for 
him who had never cared for any woman before, nor ever 
troubled to find the why and wherefore of woman's chang- 
ing moods? He could not tell; but he realized with some 
excitement and a little fear that the attraction she exercised 
was growing stronger every hour, and that, if he meant to 
combat it, he must do so at once, -before it mastered him. 

Should he go away? Charlie was not to join him for 
another week, but he could meet him somewhere; and the 
boy would probably not object to a month in Paris instead 
of being buried in the country. 

Two or three hours had been spent in doubt and hesita- 
tion, and only half his letters were written, when a cheer- 
ful voice was heard outside — some one calling out to know 


HER OWN SISTER. 


45 


where the colonel was; and the next moment the door was 
thrown open, and Charlie, travel-stained but radiant, stood 
before him. 

44 I am here before you expected me, sir,” he explained, 
after a cordial hand-shake. 4 4 The fact is, I grew tired of 
old Brown’s prosing — he’d be a good fellow enough if he’d 
only remember he is not always in the pulpit; and then I 
wanted to see what the new inheritance was like. ” 

44 You’ve not come before you are welcome, my boy,” 
answered the colonel, warmly. 44 This big rambling place 
is dreary enough to inhabit all alone. I have been want- 
ing you badly.” 

44 And I hope you will want to keep me now that you 
have me, sir. ” 

As he spoke he took a chair near the fire. The colonel 
looked down at him, smiling. 

44 1 expect that you will get so sick of the dullness of 
Littlehaven that you will be glad enough to get away, even 
to work — and Mr. Brown.” 

44 No fear of that! I met the loveliest girl I ever saw as 
I came up from the station. You know, of course, there 
was nothing to meet me there; so I borrowed a pony from 
the station-master. Such an old crock — I thought I 
shouldn’t get here before dark! Well, the reins were over 
his neck, and I was 4 hurrooshing ’ him along, when we 
came round a corner sharply; and the pony saw something 
that made him stop dead and sent me nearly over his 
head. When I recovered, I saw that it was a girl sketch- 
ing at an easel; and an old man who was with her began 
to laugh like anything — and so did she. So did I; for I 
thought it best to join in the joke, though it was against 
myself. I know I must have been a queer figure to look 
at, with my arms flying round like the sails of a windmill, 
flourishing my hat and stick — for I did not like actually to 
hit the poor old beast; and then my legs were nearly touch- 
ing the ground — it was such a little beggar!” He laughed 


46 


HER OWN SISTER. 


again at the remembrance. “ I don’t regret it either, by 
Jove, for it gave me an excuse to stop and speak to those 
people! The man — thin, tall, and with white hair — looks 
like an American, and the girl — she was lovely — simply 
lovely!” he concluded, softly. 

“ They are my tenants — they occupy the Dower 
House,” said his father, soberly. 

“ Oh, that is charming! Then you will take me there 
to-morrow, and introd uce me properly. I want to see her 
again, and remove the ridiculous impression I must have 
made. How she did laugh, and showed such pretty teeth! 
And then what eyes! Father, did you ever see such eyes?” 

Colonel Severn smiled faintly, possibly in mute depreca- 
tion of the boy’s raptures. He was busy putting up his 
papers apparently, but in reality was merely shuffling them 
backward and forward aimlessly. Ellen amused, and 
laughing merrily, like any other happy, careless girl! 
Many as the moods were, in which he had pictured her, 
even in fancy he had never seen her so, and he felt a sharp 
pang that his son should have so soon gained the advan- 
tage. He had seen her only for a few minutes, and already 
the ice was broken between them. 

Charlie rattled on in an easy unembarrassed manner 
about his experiences abroad, his journey down, and a 
dozen other matters, but he returned again and again to 
that afternoon’s adventure and its heroine. His father 
watched him furtively as he talked. 

He was a good-looking young fellow, tall and broad- 
shouldered, with fair curling hair, and an incipient fair 
mustache that as yet failed to conceal a rather large 
mouth. His eyes were bright blue, and gave a winning 
softness of expression to his square- jawed face. But in his 
manner lay his great charm — the happy audacity with 
which he always took it for granted that he was welcome, 
his ready sympathy and unvarying brightness. He was a 
little facile perhaps, but so good-hearted withal, so true, 


HER OWN SISTER. 


47 


save in the inevitable inconstancies of youth, that all who 
knew him loved him, and forgave in him what in others 
they might have condemned. 

Severn felt old and prosy in the presence of his son’s 
youth and exuberant spirits. It seemed to him that the 
madness of the past two days was a thing to be ashamed of 
and to be jealously hidden away. He knew now what had 
grown up so suddenly in his heart and rendered him a puz- 
zle to himself. He knew that he loved or was learning to 
love Ellen Warde; but fortunately he was warned in time, 
and it was not too late to stifle the passion the folly of 
which was so clear to him now. What chance had he with 
his gray hairs and spent life against Charlie’s handsome 
face and winning ways? But, even had he more in his 
favor, the situation was untenable in its indignity. It was 
impossible, utterly impossible, that he could stoop to 
rivalry with his son* 


CHAPTER VI. 

Colonel Severn was allowed no rest the next day until 
he had consented to go with his son to the Dower House. 
He would gladly have sent Charlie alone, but to this the 
boy objected so strenuously that to have continued his re- 
fusal would have aroused suspicion; and that must never 
be. No one must ever guess how near he had been to 
making a fool of himself for the sake of a sweet sad mouth 
and a pair of enigmatical gray eyes— at his age too, when 
he had 'thought himself impervious— and indeed ought to 
have been so, and would have been if he had met her in 
ordinary circumstances in society. 

The idea of taking to himself a second wife had never 
seriously entered his head; but the thought had sometimes 
crossed his mind that if Charlie married his old age would 
he a lonely one, and it might be that some day a woman 
past her first youth, whose illusions were over, and who 


48 


HER OWJST SISTER. 


I 


would require from him neither enthusiasm nor love, 
might be induced from the same motives that influenced 
him to share his lot. To attempt to link a young girTs 
fate with his would be wrong as well as undesirable he had 
thought, for it was impossible that Spring should mate 
with Autumn, and it was- easy to imagine that the natural 
incongruities of taste would cause intense suffering and 
disappointment. 

But Ellen Warde was not like other young women. 
She was so sad and staid that, even if he had paused to 
analyze his feelings, he would scarcely have thought of her 
youth as an objection. That had been his mistake. He 
had forgotten the elasticity of spirits natural at her age, 
and had fancied she would always be as she was then; he 
had not even tried to cheer her — he had only attempted to 
sympathize. Ah, yes, that had been his mistake, which 
he realized more keenly still as she came forward to meet 
his son with a frank smile of welcome and outstretched 
hand! Eor a moment too the small white fingers were 
abandoned to his clasp, but this was only because it would 
be invidious to make distinctions, and she had known him 
first. So at least he thought, and at the earliest oppor- 
tunity left her side and opened a conversation with Mr. 
Bowyer. 

He spoke connectedly and with his usual clear judgment, 
but quite mechanically, for his whole attention was concen- 
trated on the other two, who were seated on an ottoman 
turning over the leaves of an album. Charlie was in high 
spirits; once or twice he laughed heartily; and presently, 
unable to resist the infection of his merriment, Ellen 
laughed too. 

The colonel started as though hurt, and Mr. Bowyer 
looked up in surprise. 

“ The young people get on well together/" he observed. 
“ It is only natural, I suppose. What is it the poet says 
about 4 youth and crabbed age *V 9 


HER OWN SISTER. 


49 


Colonel Severn could not remember the quotation, but 
agreed with Mr. Bowyer that it was only to be expected 
that Miss Warde would like to talk to some one of her own 
age. 

“ She has had no cheerful companionship of late,” said 
Mr. Bowyer. “ I am glad your son has come / 3 

The other winced, but made no reply. He was relieved 
when Mr. Bowyer went back to the subject that they had 
been discussing before — a subject on which fortunately the 
new tenant was very eloquent, and so did not notice how 
sparse and brief were the replies that he received. 

Colonel Severn was thinking of a fairy-story he had once 
heard or read and only faintly remembered. It was some- 
thing about a princess who was very sad — so sad that noth- 
ing could amuse her or arouse her from her grief, though 
all means were tried; and at last her royal father, despair- 
ing, issued a proclamation that whoever could make the 
princess laugh should have her for his wife. How the 
story had ended he could not recollect, but he knew that 
as the king had proclaimed so it was — that he who won the 
sad princess to merriment at last became her husband. 

Those old stories held so much of truth. And what 
more likely than that she should be grateful to any one 
who could cause her even for a moment to forget her 
trouble? And was not gratitude, like pity, akin to love? 

He glanced wistfully across the room to where his son 
sat, leaning forward, bright with animation and gesticula- 
ting slightly — in affectation of the foreign fashion — as he 
talked. Ellen’s gray eyes were raised to his face in evi- 
dent interest, and the color came and went in her excite- 
ment; it was as though life had been suddenly breathed 
into a statue, so different was she from her usual self. 

Charlie, who had seen her only so, admired her without 
reserve, betraying his admiration at every turn. Colonel 
Severn got up to go, feeling that he could bear it no longer. 

He was a little surprised when Ellen proposed to Mr. 


50 


HER OWN SISTER. 


Bowyer that they should walk part of the way back with 
them — more so when she pointedly showed her intention of 
walking with him, and not with his son. 

Charlie's disappointment was visible, but he rallied 
almost immediately, and made himself as agreeable as pos- 
sible to the Anglo-Australian, who had once been in the 
profession which he himself was ultimately to adopt. He 
half forgot his chagrin in listening to the old man's racy 
stories of cases that he had conducted in the country that 
he knew so much better than his own. 

The other two gradually dropped behind, talking gen- 
eralities at first, until Ellen Warde stopped suddenly and 
faced her companion. 

“ I want you to help me, Colonel Severn." 

“ If I can do so, you may be quite sure I will." 

He was looking down into her troubled face with almost 
fatherly concern. Half the remaining years of his life 
would he gladly give if by doing so he could purchase for 
her happiness and peace. 

“ Miss Mary Featherstone, the vicar's daughter, called 
on me to-day." 

“ I am glad of that — she is such a nice girl, and will be 
a pleasant friend for you. " 

Ellen grew as pale as death, and pressed one hand to 
her heart, as though the pain she felt were actually phys- 
ical. 

“ That is quite impossible," came at last in a low 
strained voice from between her white lips. “ I can never 
be her friend. I am in mourning, you know; I do not 
visit." 

“But the vicar's daughter— surely — " 

“ It makes no difference. I — I don't wish to break 
through my rule." Meeting his glance of amazement, she 
added, hastily, “It is for that I want your assistance. 
You know her well, and can explain to her that I am very 
grateful to her for her kindness in coming to see me so 


HER OWN SISTER. 


51 


soon; but — but I never make friends. We are neither of 
us sociable. Iu your case it was different; but, if I re- 
turned Miss Feathers tone’s call, others might come; and 
— and — ” 

“ Thank you very much for making an exception in our 
favor ” — gravely. 

“ You must not thank me; it was because Mr. Bowyer 
likes some one to talk to,” she began; then, conscious of 
the ungratefulness of her remark, she added, with a win- 
ning smile, “You were a stranger then; now I too am 
glad you did not remain so. ” 

Severn bowed somewhat formally. In his own mind he 
decided that she was glad on Charlie’s account, not on his 
own. 

“ And so,” she went on, hurriedly, “ I want you to say 
all this to Miss Featherstone without offending her or 
arousing her suspicion. I mean ” — walking on quickly to 
cover her confusion — “ I should not like her to think that 
there was any reason for our strict seclusion.” 

“ Your recent loss will be sufficient excuse. She is the 
last in the world to think evil of any or to wish to force 
her confidence. By and by, when the first violence of 
your grief is past, she may hope to make your acquaint- 
ance, even if you will not accord her your friendship.” 

She turned away her head and bit her lip. Would he 
never understand? Must she tell him in plain words that 
she was so circumstanced that she dared not make a friend 
— that the terrible past held her in its toils and must in- 
fluence her future? 

“ It is not a recent loss— it happened nearly a year ago; 
and nothing can alter my resolution. I can never make a 
friend, nor even an acquaintance!” she broke out, petu- 
lantly at last. 

“ Not a recent loss? Then it must have been some one 
very dear — ” He stopped, awed by the pain and passion 
in the eyes that for a moment met his own and seemed to 


52 


HER OWN SISTER. 


beg his silence. “Forgive me!” he said, humbly, and 
dared say no more. 

For a moment or two she could not answer; all her 
strength was required to master the emotion that his words 
had caused. Then she said, slowly — 

“ 1 will leave it to you to say what you think best, only 
let it be definite. And now will you go on and join the 
others? Tell Mr. Bowyer that I am tired. I dare say he 
will overtake me.” 

She gave him her hand in farewell, and he held it rev- 
erently, looking at her earnestly, as though wishful that 
his eyes could say all that his tongue failed aptly to ex- 
press. 

“ I will always do what I can do for you,” he said, 
abruptly, then turned and, walking away rapidly, left her 
standing there. 

It was growing dusk, but she scarcely noticed the 
lengthening shadows and the cold night breeze that had 
sprung up, so deep was she in thought. What had she 
said? Had she betrayed herself? What conclusion could 
he draw from her strange agitation and the expression of 
her wish to live her life alone? 

A bat flew by so near that it almost touched her hair, 
and elicited a faint cry from her. Her reverie effectually 
broken, she roused herself and went back to the house. 

There were lights in all the rooms, and as she ap- 
proached a shadow moved across the blind of her window. 
The gate she held escaped from her grasp, and swung to 
with a creaking sound. The figure immediately disap- 
peared. When she reached her room, no one was there. 

Had it been her imagination, which saw a cause for fear 
at every turn, or only the servant lighting the candles? It 
was stupid of her to be so easily alarmed; would she ever 
be able to possess her soul in peace? 

On this occasion her fears had not been without founda- 
tion. 


SEE OWN SISTEE. 53 

Directly slie and Mr. Bowyer had left the house, Mrs. 
Priolo, who had been watching for this opportunity, 
slipped upstairs, having told the maid that she would do 
her work for her that evening. This was soon finished, 
and then she was at leisure to prosecute her search. 

She did not hope much from it — the girl would scarcely 
keep anything knowingly in her possession which could 
prove anything against her; but, if she could only obtain a 
clew, it would be easy to follow it up. 

Her doubt of Ellen Warde had been verified on that first 
night of their arrival, when she listened at the door, and 
had caught something of what was said as the voices rose 
and fell. She had heard nothing clearly, only enough to 
tell her that this girl who had supplanted her had escaped 
by flight from the consequences of some crime, and was 
now in hiding. 

If she could only discover whence she came, where Mr. 
Bowyer had met her, and why he had taken her under his 
protection! Drawer after drawer was carefully examined; 
but nothing rewarded her exertions. Once she thought 
she was on the threshold of a discovery. She had come 
upon a round tin box with a patent padlock on it; and her 
quick sight instantly detected that, though apparently so 
securely fastened, the pin of the hinge being loose, the box 
could in reality be opened with ease. To remove the pin 
was the work of a moment; but the housekeeper uttered 
an ejaculation of disgust as she saw its contents. It was 
nothing but a dried bouquet, with the lace and pale blue 
ribbons still around it. 

“ Such nonsense!” muttered the woman, angrily, as she 
dropped it back into its proper place. 

She was destined, however, to gather something from 
her stolen visit. 

A large portfolio stood upright against the wall. It was 
locked, and she felt no hope of being able to find out any- 
thing from it; but as she lifted it she saw a paper project- 


54 


HER OWN SISTER. 


ing a little way beyond the leather, and as she shook it 
vigorously several others fluttered down. She picked 
them up eagerly. The first she looked at was a photograph 
of Ellen Warde herself as Galatea — Mrs. Priolo was not 
sufficiently well-educated to recognize the Greek dress; but 
another photograph, in which she was portrayed as Rosa- 
lind, in doublet and hose, dispelled all doubt. The girl 
was nothing but a play-actress, decided the housekeeper 
with a thrill of horror, forgetful of those old days when 
she herself had not been a very respectable bar-maid in 
Montreal. 

But after all, though play-acting was disreputable 
enough to drive away her two fine gentleman admirers if 
discovered, it was not a crime. More remained to be un- 
earthed. 

Another photograph — Elaine and Ada together, their 
arms interlaced, the two golden heads touching. The re- 
semblance was so striking that Mrs. Priolo comprehended 
the relationship at once. There had been a sister; where 
was she now? Was it for her that Ellen wore that ridicu- 
lous deep mourning, for all the world like a widow — much 
deeper, in fact, than Mrs. Priolo had worn when her first 
husband died. The housekeeper scented a mystery here, 
but had not time then to follow it up. 

Several sketches remained to be seen — bits of scenery 
that were contemptuously put aside and designated as 
<£ daubs •” then a head, only roughly outlined, of a young 
man of about twenty-five, with dark eyes set rather near 
together, a well-shaped nose, dark close-cropped hair, and 
a small pointed mustache. Who was this? 

But the next, the last of the sketches, brought a glow of 
satisfaction into Mrs. Priolo’ s thin face. It was a view of 
Sydney — she would have recognized it even had the name 
not been written beneath, and the date, March 9 th. 

Why, it was the very year and month when she herself 
was at Sydney! No — it was April when she arrived there. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


55 


and when she had been so strangely deserted by her em- 
ployer. 

Ah, now she was on the scent — now she had the clew! 
Ellen Warde and Mr. Bowver had probably left Sydney 
together — why? 

The creaking of the gate disturbed her. Hastily slip- 
ping the sketches back, she placed the j)ortfolio in its old 
position, and was safe in her room before Ellen Warde had 
mounted the stairs. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Mr. Bowyer's native air was apparently not agreeing 
with him. Whatever the cause, whether it was the damp- 
ness, after the clear, dry climate of Australia, or the season 
of the year, which was trying to every one, he became nerv- 
ous and irritable, and altogether out of health without 
any ailment in particular. The doctor who was called in 
at Ellen's repeated request pronounced it general debility 
• — a breaking up of the system; but Mr. Bowyer himself 
said that it was “ liver." 

Nothing else, he thought, could account for the gloomy 
fancies which possessed him — fancies he was ashamed to 
put into words even to himself, and which gained in gloom- 
iness from their very repression. Whence they had arisen 
he could not tell, but he felt vaguely that they grew and 
became more unbearable after every conversation with his 
housekeeper; and these conversations had been very fre- 
quent of late. 

Charlie Severn was in and out of the house all day, with 
boyish disregard of what his visits might be taken to mean 
— indeed really anxious that their motive should be under- 
stood. He was desperately in love with Ellen Warde, and 
his passion was apparent to every one except her whom it 
most concerned. She, absorbed in her own affairs, thought 


56 


HER OWN SISTER. 


of him only as a pleasant companion, one who possessed 
the happy knack of making her forget her troubles, if only 
for a time. She liked him, was fond of him indeed after a 
fashion; but, though he amused and interested her, she had 
never dreamed of him as a lover. ^ He was a year younger 
than herself, and more than usually young in manner for 
his age; so she enjoyed his society without any misgiving, 
went wandering with him through the neighboring woods, 
or walking sometimes along the dusty roads that led to 
Greathaven, and sketched with him, never dreaming what 
all this meant to the young man. Nor did she imagine that 
there was danger in leaving her benefactor so often alone. 
He had more than once expressed himself pleased that she 
should have a younger companion than himself, and she 
had believed what he said, and never noticed how day by 
day Mrs. Priolo was taking her place and undermining the 
old man’s faith in her. 

Mr. Bowyer himself never knew how it began — how the 
first doubt arose in his mind whether he had done well in 
allowing impulse to triumph over common sense; but 
gradually the feeling grew that he had been rash to burden 
himself with a girl of whom he knew absolutely nothing, 
and actually unwise to trust her as he had done. 

He was decidedly unwell, nervous and unstrung, and par- 
ticularly susceptible to outside influence. If Ellen had de- 
voted herself to him now as she had done before, she might 
have entirely won his confidence and never lost it again; but 
the neglect that began in carelessness became an estrange- 
ment through her pride; for, as Mrs. Priolo usurped her 
rights one by one, instead of fighting, she renounced them 
quietly. If he wanted her, surely he would tell her so; 
and in the meantime she could not stoop to beg that she 
might be reinstated. She forgot to make allowances for 
his broken health. Once or twice, when she came back in 
the evening from a ramble, she saw through the window, 
as she passed, Mr. Bowyer seated by the fire and the house' 


HER OWH SISTER. 


57 


keeper reading aloud, or else talking earnestly, while the 
old man paced the room in evident indecision. 

She was too proud to- interrupt them, seeing that they 
got on so well alone; and it never entered her head that 
these conversations concerned her. Nor indeed was her 
name ever mentioned. Mrs. Priolo was too clever to com- 
mit an indiscretion. If the old lawyer once suspected that 
she disliked Ellen, and was trying to vilify her for her own 
ends, her game would be at an end. He would be on his 
guard, and distrust whatever she might presently have oc- 
casion to bring against his protegee. 

No; whatever she said was general, and seemed to apply 
to no one in particular, ft was of course a mere coinci- 
dence that the talk so often turned upon people who had 
been raised from the mire and had been the undoing of 
those who had so raised them. 

If she ever spoke of Ellen, it was affectionately and piti- 
fully; but even then she managed to implant a sting. It 
had been dull for the poor child — no wonder she took the 
first opportunity to make a new acquaintance! For her 
part, she could never desert old friends for new; but then 
it was absurd to expect to find old heads on young shoul- 
ders. She was sure— quite sure Miss Ellen did not mean 
to be ungrateful. 

To this the old man returned rather gruffly that he need- 
ed no gratitude, and was glad the girl should enjoy herself. 

“ That is because you are so good, sir — too good for this 
wicked world, where there's always some one looking out 
to impose on the charitably inclined." 

“ I don't think "—testily— “ I'm such a fool that any 
one would attempt to impose on me. " 

Mrs. Priolo eagerly disclaimed any such insinuation. 
But, though compelled to abandon the attack then, she re- 
turned to it again and again, so that at iast Mr. Bowyer 
began really to believe that he was badly treated by his 
adopted niece. Then he would speak to her coldly; and 


58 


HER OWN SISTER. 


Ellen would creep away to her room and weep there silent- 
ly over the change in him. Had he repented of his kind- 
ness to her? If so, she could no longer accept it so simply 
and unquestioningly as she had done before. Unless he 
really liked her and cared to have her with him, she was a 
dependent indeed, not even earning the bread she eat. 

Another circumstance distressed her. Colonel Severn 
had never been to the Dower House since that day on which 
she had asked for his aid. Had she in any way fallen in 
his estimation? Did he suspect anything, or was it simply 
disinclination? That he had had no quarrel with Mr. 
Bowyer was evident, for the lawyer had been over to the 
Abbey several times at the colonel’s invitation. It must be 
some reason connected with herself that kept him away. It 
seemed she was a stumbling-block all round! Only Charlie 
Severn seemed to take any pleasure in her society now; so 
no wonder she greeted him so cordially, and that such 
sweet regret shone from her eyes when she said good-bye. 

But, self-engrossed as she was, she had not been utterly 
blind to Mrs. Priolo’s machinations. She could not fail to 
see that that lady was maneuvering to keep her away from 
Mr. Bowyer, though she did not at once realize that she 
had any other motive than a perhaps natural jealousy. At 
last she resolved to act boldly and remonstrate with her. If 
that had no effect, she would appeal to Mr. Bowyer, and 
ask if it was by his wish that they were never together now 
— never alone as they used to be. Once she had sat down 
to the piano to play to him, but Mrs. Priolo had kept up a 
flow of conversation the whole time, so that at last he had 
begged Ellen somewhat impatiently to desist, as his nerves 
were not strong enough to stand any music now. Whether 
it would not have soothed him if he had been allowed to 
listen quietly he never stopped to think; and Ellen had no 
opportunity of trying, for the housekeeper scarcely ever 
left his side. 

At last Ellen managed to intercept her on the stairs. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


59 


“ Mrs. Priolo," she said, in her sweet low-toned voice, 
that took away from her speech anything it might have had 
of abruptness, “ why do you try to come between Mr. 
Bowyer and me?” 

“I? Why, I don't understand! Why should I do such 
a thing?" 

“ Yes, why?" repeated Ellen, firmly. 

The woman, recovering herself, laughed; but the laugh 
contained more malignity than mirth. 

“It's some nonsense of yours. Miss Ellen. You were 
always given to dreaming." 

“ But I am not dreaming now. I can see plainly that 
you are taking advantage of Mr. Bowyer's illness to usurp 
my place. " 

“ And, if I am 99 — fiercely — “ who usurped mine? I had 
served him for more than nine } r ears, and he was always 
satisfied with me and wanted no one else until you came, 
with your sly wavs, pretending butter would not melt in 
your mouth, and scheming after his money all the while!" 

“I scheme after his money!" cried Ellen, scornfully. 
“ You may have every farthing he possesses if you will 
only leave me in peace and let him like me as much as he 
used to do." 

Mrs. Priolo smiled a slow, comprehensive smile full of 
unbelief. 

“ Can't you trust me?" — impatiently. 

“ I’d sooner make things certain for myself, thank you. 
Miss Ellen." 

“ Then I shall go at once to Mr. Bowyer and tell him 
what has passed between us. I shall beg him to leave mo 
nothing. I shall tell him — what he at least will be large- 
minded enough to believe— that I want only his affection, 
not his money. " 

Her decided attitude and evident determination to carry 
out her threat made the housekeeper grow red, then pale. 
With apprehension. She would never have shown her hand 


60 


HER OWH SISTER. 


so recklessly had she thought Ellen would dare to resist her 
will. 

“ I don't see what good that would do to either of us — 
and he so ill too/' she remarked, hastily. 

“ Then promise me you will do as I wish/' insisted El- 
len. “ Let us be together alone in the morning and even- 
ing as we used to be. If you want to attack, let’ me at least 
defend myself. " 

“ Indeed, miss, I don't want to do you any harm; and I 
hope you'll not harm me. I have the best right to his 
money, you'll admit, having been with him so long and 
been married to his only brother — why, I'm the only con- 
nection he has in the world!" 

“ I told you " — haughtily — “ that 1 had no wish for his 
money." 

She was turning away, resolved to keep the advantage 
she had obtained, when the housekeeper made a last effort 
to regain what she had lost by her indiscretion. 

“Iam almost his sister. Miss Ellen, you see." Then, 
abandoning the cringing manner she had adopted, and 
leaning forward, so that she might see if her random shot 
would tell, she added, meaningly, “ Had you ever a sis- 
ter?" 

But she was not prepared for so immediate or so decis- 
ive a result. Ellen Warde fell back against the balusters, 
breathing heavily, as though her heart were affected by 
some sudden shock. With widely opened eyes she stared 
blankly at the speaker, her lips as white as chalk. 

She was evidently in deadly fear, and Mrs. Priolo was 
careful to say nothing to reassure her. 

“You leave me alone, and I'll leave you alone, " she 
observed; and, nodding her head triumphantly, she went 
toward the room where Mr. Bowyer was seated, feeling that 
she had won the game with points to spare. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


Cl 


CHAPTER YIII. 

Two or three months had passed since Colonel Severn 
last visited the Dower House; iror had he seen Ellen in the 
interval. Charlie had always asked for his company at 
first, and expressed himself inj ured at the somewhat curt 
refusals he received; but latterly he had evidently pre- 
ferred going thither alone. One day, as he was starting 
ofi as usual, his father stopped him in the hall. 

“ Come into my den a moment, Charlie — I want to 
speak to you,” he said. 

The young fellow went with him at once, and sat on the 
edge of the table, waiting for what was to follow. He had 
a clear conscience, or he might have been disturbed by this 
unexpected summons. As it was, his bright blue eyes 
rested unflinchingly upon his father’s face. The few un- 
important debts he had contracted at Harrow had been set- 
tled on his father’s accession to the property, and the 
handsome allowance he now drew amply covered his pres- 
ent expenses. Nor was there anything else he was afraid 
might come to light. All his boyish faults and peccadil- 
loes he had already frankly confessed. Father and son were 
more like brothers now that the close intercourse of the 
past few weeks had effectually broken down the barrier 
which had been the result of their long separation, and 
had not been the effect of any want of sympathy. 

“You are off to the Dower House, I suppose?” in- 
quired the colonel. 

“ Yes, sir,” answered Charlie, with his usual frankness. 
“ Can I take any message?” 

“ Have you ever thought, Charlie, to what these daily 
visits may commit you?” counter-questioned Colonel Sev- 
ern, gravely, going directly to the point. 

He did not glance at his son to see the effect of his 


62 


HER OWN SISTER. 


words; all his attention was apparently fixed on the cutting 
off of the end of a cigar. He pared it carefully until it 
was exactly even, and then, when no reply was forthcom- 
ing, he lighted it slowly and went on — 

4 4 It is not fair to -Miss Warde, making her conspicuous 
by your attentions, unless you really mean to ask her to be 
your wife — ” 

44 And, if I did, sir, should I have your approval?” in- 
terrupted the boy, eagerly. 

Colonel Severn blew cloud after cloud of pale-blue 
smoke into the air before he answered. 

44 You see, Charlie,” he said, half apologetically, 
44 I'm not a model parent. Perhaps it is because I am 
young enough still to understand that one would like to 
follow one's own way in a matter of this sort; but, at any 
rate, I don't think it is carelessness as to your welfare that 
prompts me to let you choose for yourself. The reason 
why I spoke to you this morning is that I want you to be 
certain of your own mind — your own wishes. You are very 
young, and you may change. '' 

44 Never!” cried Charlie, with such superabundance of 
emphasis in his tones that even his father, whose mood was 
serious enough, was forced to smile. 

44 You must also remember,” he went on, presently, 
44 that we know nothing of the antecedents of either Mr. 
Bowyer himself or his niece. No, no; I am insinuating 
nothing” — as Charlie threw back his head in angry im- 
patience; 44 but they have evidently some strong reason for 
the strict seclusion they insist on; and you must ask your- 
self whether, in case anything transpired to — to Miss 
Warde's disadvantage, your love is strong enough to stand 
the shock.” 

44 If she is in trouble, there is the more reason why she 
should have some one to help and protect her,” answered 
Charlie, simply. 


HER OWH SISTER. 


63 


The colonel laid his hand affectionately on his son’s 
shoulder in mute approval. 

44 Then you do not object to my asking her to become 
my wife, sir?” 

44 My dear boy, I have told you before that in my opin- 
ion fathers should have no authority in the matter of a son’s 
marriage. ” 

44 And you won’t even give your opinion? At least you 
might offer your advice,” grumbled Charlie, who had ex- 
pected some opposition, and felt unreasonably disappointed 
that he had no battles to fight for his love’s sweet sake. 

44 What would my advice be worth? It is your affair 
entirely — it is you who have to live with her, not I,” he 
concluded, with a short laugh. 

Charlie looked at him in half-offended surprise. Some- 
thing must have vexed his father, for he was utterly unlike 
what he usually was, calm and unruffled, yet full of sym- 
pathy and instinctive tact. 

44 It strikes me,” said the young fellow, after a pause, 
44 that we have been taking rather a one-sided view of the 
question. Suppose ” — with a sudden catch in his voice — 
44 suppose she won’t have me?” 

The colonel remained silent. In his own mind he 
scarcely felt a doubt, for what woman could resist the 
boy’s winning face and sunny nature? Yet, much as he 
loved his son and wished for his happiness — ay, even above 
his own — he could not, even to comfort him, express his 
conviction that Ellen Warde would become his wife. In 
time he might accustom himself to the idea; but just now 
the pain was new and desperately hard to bear. 

44 It seems such presumption in me to ask for her love,” 
went on Charlie, dolefully; 44 she is so beautiful, so clever, 
and I — ” 

“ Do you think one stops to weigh the pros and cons in 
love?” 

But Charlie’s fears once aroused, would not be so easily 


64 


HER OWN SISTER. 


allayed. Nothing would satisfy him but that his father 
should accompany him and give his opinion as to whether 
the case were hopeless or not; and Colonel Severn, who 
had never refused him anything on which he had seriously 
set his heart, reluctantly consented. 

“Not that I shall be of the least use,” he observed, re- 
signedly, as they approached the gate of the Dower House. 
“I'm an old fogy now, and have forgotten all the signs 
and symptoms.” 

“You old? Why, you are in the prime of life! It is I 
who am so insutferably, disgustingly young. Do you think 
any woman would look at me when you were by? I say, 
dad ” — linking his arm affectionately through his father's 
— “ isn't it lucky you did not fall in love with her?'' 

The necessity for any reply was obviated by Ellen's com- 
ing forward to meet them as they passed through the gate. 
She had been gathering roses — a basket full of them hung^ 
upon her arm — but not one of them could vie with the 
crimson that came into her cheeks as she recognized her 
visitors. 

Charlie stole a shy questioning glance at his father. 
Surely her confusion was a good sign ! 

“Iam glad you have come again at last,” said Ellen, 
giving her hand to the colonel; “ and Mr. Bowyer will be 
very glad to see you too, I know. ' ' 

She stood with downcast eyes, nervously fingering her 
flowers, as he quietly spoke his excuses for his past neglect 
of them and expressed his pleasure at being there then. 

When he had finished speaking, Ellen could think of 
nothing to say in turn. Charlie broke in impulsively with 
some question about herself, and, as she answered him. 
Colonel Severn walked on to join Mr. Bowyer, who was sit- 
ting outside the house. 

“ You are better, I hope?” he said, civilly, when the 
old lawyer had shaken hands with him and reproached him 
for his long absence. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


65 


“ Well, yes, perhaps I am. You know there is nothing 
radically wrong — it is merely nervous weakness; and, upon 
my soul, I'd rather have the most deadly disease that sci- 
ence ever combated. " 

“ I can well understand that. We men are not accus- 
tomed even to acknowledge that we have nerves . 99 

“ I suppose it is change of climate. I was never like 
this in Australia . 99 

“ What does Doctor Armstrong recommend?" 

Mr. Bowyer shrugged his shoulders a little scornfully. 

“ The usual things, of course — nourishing diet, cheerful 
society, and gentle exercise." 

Mrs. Priolo came from the house with a small tray on 
which were a bottle and wine-glass. 

“ It is time for your medicine, sir," she said, respectful- 
ly, and poured it out. 

He swallowed it obediently. 

“The gallons "of it I have taken!" he said, making a 
wry face, as the housekeeper resettled his cushions and 
pushed his footstool nearer. 

“ Indeed, sir, so you have; it's to be hoped it'll do you 
good soon," she said, sympathetically. 

Colonel Severn scanned her curiously. He did not like 
the woman's voice — it sounded false to his keen ears, 
which had always been quick to discover Asiatic double- 
dealing; nor did the expression of her face please him. It 
was too thin and hard; and the smile she had summoned 
up seemed unnatural and forced. 

“I'd stake my life upon it the woman is deceitful!" 
thought the colonel to himself, as he watched her re-enter 
the house. 

Then Mr. Bowyer spoke again. 

“ Yes, I suppose it is the change of climate. My niece 
has also been unwell. She comes down in the morning 
looking as though she had not slept all night, and eats sim- 
ply nothing at all. I can't think what it is." 


66 


HER OWIf SISTER. 


“ Perhaps / 9 began Severn, and then suddenly stopped. 
He had been about to say, “ Perhaps she is unhappy," but 
it struck him that the remark might savor of imperti- 
nence, and on the spur of the moment he could think of 
nothing to say instead. 

“ I know what you were going to say,” finished Mr. 
Bowyer, quickly, the idea striking him now for the first 
time. * 4 Perhaps she is in love." 

Colonel Severn was silent; nor did Mr. Bowyer speak 
again at once. This was indeed an easy solution of the 
difficulty which had been troubling him of late. Why had 
it never entered his head before? The housekeepers hints 
had had their intended effect. He had grown uneasy, act- 
ually afraid, at Ellen Warde’s continued residence under 
his roof; and yet he could not find it in his heart to take 
from her the only shelter she possessed. He could not turn 
her out; but, if some one else should offer to take her — 
some one who knew nothing of the past, and therefore need 
never be troubled by it — ah, that would be a happy deliv- 
erance indeed, and his conscience could be at rest about 
her! It never struck him that it would be dishonorable to 
allow any one to marry her in ignorance of the past. Just 
then he was thinking of himself — wholly of himself — and 
the cowardly fear that countless warnings, more implied 
than spoken, had implanted in his thoughts. 

Ellen was moving slowly from bush to bush, her soft 
black velvet gown trailing over the short grass, the after- 
noon sun shining upon her uncovered head; her hair, so 
closely cut when she arrived, had grown a little longer 
now, and lay in soft golden rings upon her forehead. It 
was almost the only color about her, for her face was very 
pale, seen now in repose, and she seemed languid and un- 
interested, though her companion was talking so eagerly 
and so near her that once the two fair heads touched as 
simultaneously they stooped to gather a rose that hung 
lower than the rest. 


HER OWH SISTER. 


67 


“ Would you approve if anything came of that?” asked 
Mr. Bowyer, eagerly. “ She is a good girl — a really good 
girl; and ” — as the other did not answer — “ she will have 
twenty thousand pounds either on her wedding-day or at 
my death . 99 

“ She is fair enough and sweet enough to be welcome for 
her own sake,.” said Severn. 

<c Still ,'* 9 smiled Mr. Bowyer, “ money never comes 
amiss.” 

The colonel pushed back his chair impatiently. He was 
angry that Ellen should be thus offered to his son, with 
money added as an inducement for him to take her. Yet 
the old man had not seemed wanting in pride or affection 
for her before. What had happened to bring about the 
change? 

“ Charlie would be glad to marry her without a penny,” 
he said, curtly. 

A slight sound attracted his attention, coming apparent- 
ly from the open window behind them. Looking up, he 
saw a white malicious face peering out from behind the 
curtains, almost unrecognizable with rage, yet he knew it 
could belong to no other than the woman who a few mo- 
ments before had smiled upon them both so blandly. 

She must have overheard Mr. Bowyer J s expressed inten- 
tion of giving so large a sum to his niece, and it was that 
which had infuriated her so. Had she had any reason to 
expect his fortune herself? 

The face had been withdrawn at once; it was only for an 
instant that Colonel Severn had seen it; yet he could not 
forget its diabolical expression, and felt alarmed for Ellen's 
sake. 

Would any harm come to her? Not if he could avert 
it. They must hurry on this marriage — if it was to be, it 
might as well be soon — and Ellen must be warned. Would 
it be of any use to speak to Mr. Bowyer? 

He had risen to his feet in his excitement, and Mr. 


68 


HER OWN SISTER. 


Bowyer rose too, proposing they should walk, as the air 
was growing chilly. 

“ Have you had that housekeeper of yours long?” asked 
Colonel Severn, abruptly. 

“ Why, yes!” — with a look of surprise. “ She has been 
with me some nine or ten years.” 

“ Ah, then, she is quite a treasure, I suppose?” went on 
the colonel, carelessly twisting his long dark mustache. 

“ She suits me very well — indeed has been my right hand 
since I have been ill. She is a sort of connection.” 

No more was said. It would be useless. Colonel Severn 
felt; for on no subject were people as a rule so touchy as 
on that of old and valued servants; and his acquaintance 
with his tenant was so slight. 

“ Well, sir,” said Charlie, eagerly, as they walked home 
together half an hour later — “ well, what do you think?” 

“ I think,” answered his father, impressively, “ you 
should speak to her at once, and marry her as soon as she 
will let you. ” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Mrs. Priolo had not allowed the grass to grow under 
her feet. Immediately after her discoveries in Ellen 
Wardens room she had written to a friend in London who 
she knew always scrupulously kept the weekly newspapers 
she received from Australia, and asked her as a favor to 
lend her those of that winter when she and Mr. Bowyer 
had been separated. If the girl had committed any crime, 
the account of it would probably be in them, or at least 
she might find something in connection with her profes- 
sional career which would furnish a clew. 

Prejudiced though she was against the girl who had come 
between her and her hopes, the housekeeper never really 
believed that anything serious would be elicited; she 
thought it would probably turn out to be some girlish es- 


HER OWN SISTER. 


69 


capade to which Ellen attached exaggerated importance. 
Perhaps it was merely the fact that she had been an actress 
of which she was ashamed. If that was so, Mrs. Priolo 
would know how to play upon her weakness. But then 
what was the meaning of that horror-stricken face at the 
mention of her sister? Ah, well, time would show; and 
meanwhile she had prepared the old man's mind to believe 
whatever she should think well to fabricate against his 
protegee. 

This illness of his was fortunate indeed, since, in his 
ordinary healthy frame of mind, she knew of old how diffi- 
cult he was to cajole. As it was, already he shrunk from 
the girl's near presence, and had learned to look to his sis- 
ter-in-law for everything he wanted, though it was still his 
pleasure to ignore that relationship. This was not enough. 
Ellen Warde must be driven away by fair means or by 
foul, lest the fickle fancies so common to old age should 
cause him to turn to her again. Then indeed would Mrs. 
Priolo's last state be worse than her first, for Ellen would 
surely never forgive her for what she had already said and 
done. 

It was on the morning after she had overheard Mr. 
Bowyer telling Colonel Severn what he intended to do in 
the event of his niece's marriage that she received an an- 
swer to her letter in the shape of a large bundle of news- 
papers, for which she had to pay two or three shillings 
extra postage, in consequence of the postal regulations not 
having been complied with. So indignant was she at what 
she termed her friend's selfish carelessness that for some 
time she could not concentrate her attention on what was 
before her, and kept turning page after page in angry ab- 
erration. Then something caught her eyes that riveted 
her attention at once — “ Theatrical Tragedy at Sydney! 
Murder of an Actress! Important Evidence of her Sister!" 

Could this be what she sought? 

Mrs. Priolo breathed quickly, and her thin face grew 


70 


HER OWN SISTER. 


flushed with suspense. She was in her own sitting-room, 
where no one ever intruded, but, as a further precaution, 
she rose and locked the door. She must sift this matter to 
the bottom. 

As she read, and the conviction grew upon her that one 
of those who had been concerned in that dreadful tragedy 
was under the same roof with her, her excitement became 
more intense. 

There could be no mistake — two sisters, actresses, both 
supposed to be in love with the same man. The one he 
chose for his wife was found murdered; and the person 
who was with her last, the owner of the pistol from which 
the fatal shot had been fired — who had also, as was proved, 
been on bad terms with her for the previous week — was her 
sister. 

Mrs. Priolo recalled the photograph she had seen of the 
two girls and the sketch of a young man, who was probably 
the Gerald Weare mentioned in the inquiry, and not a 
doubt remained in her mind but that “ Ellen Warde ” 
was merely an alias for “ Elaine Warrington.” Now the 
terror depicted so plainly on her face at the chance suppo- 
sition that she might have had a sister was explained — it 
meant guilt. She was guilty of that sister’s death. 

Only one fact struck her as strange. This being so, and 
every word of the evidence at the inquest having pointed to 
the one conclusion, why was the girl still free? 

She turned over the page to see what the verdict had 
been. 

“ Willful murder against some person or persons un- 
known. ” Why, surely none could have hesitated to pro- 
nounce who that person was after what had been proved! 
But this was only the coroner’s inquest, of course, and the 
real trial would follow. 

She threw that paper impatiently on one side, and took 
up the next week’s issue. The first lines on which her 


HER OWN- SISTER. 


71 


glance alighted told her all — 44 The Sydney Tragedy. 
Flight of the Suspected Murderess !” 

Ah, now she remembered the whole affair! It had 
caused great excitement at the time, and, troubled though 
she had been by the strange absence of her brother-in-law, 
she could not but hear a great deal about it. Naturally 
she never dreamed that the two events had any connection 
with each other; but now she understood that it was Mr. 
Bowyer who had helped the girl to escape, and brought her 
to this out of the way place to save her from detection. 
Why he had done so was a problem still to be solved. What 
could have induced the hard-headed old lawyer to go so far 
out of his usually selfish course? No light reason could 
have induced him to aid in defeating the ends of justice. 

A light tap was heard at the door; and, flushing guiltily, 
the housekeeper concealed the newspaper and stood up, for- 
getting that, even were any one inclined to disturb the 
privacy she always so jealously guarded, the turned key 
would prevent their entrance. 

4 4 It is I,” said the soft voice of Ellen Warde. 44 Mr. 
Bowyer is asking for his soup. ” 

4 £ It is ready for him in the small saucepan standing on 
the hob,” was the hasty reply; and the light footsteps 
echoed along the passage, and presently died away. 

Mrs. Priolo was free to pursue her train of thought. She 
felt that it would have been impossible to face the rest of 
the household with the shock of the stupendous discovery 
she had made still fresh. Before she could do that she 
must grow a little accustomed to the horror of it, so that 
her knowledge might be unsuspected. First of all, too, 
she must fathom the mystery of Mr. Bowyer faction in the 
matter. 

Could he have been attracted by the pretty face of the 
popular actress, having seen her only at the theater? 

No, .no; old men were, she knew, addicted to such senile 
fancies; but he was the very last in the world to make him- 


72 


HER OWN SISTER. 


self so ridiculous; nor had there been anything in his sub- 
sequent behavior to lead to such a supposition. Had he 
been in love with the girl, he would have married her be- 
fore this; besides, he always addressed her in unmistakably 
paternal fashion. 

Was she his daughter — legitimate or otherwise? That 
idea also she dismissed also as improbable, for her husband 
had always affirmed, when she questioned him on the sub- 
ject — having already, even at that early period, had de- 
signs upon the fortune of the prosperous lawyer — that his 
brother's name had never been mentioned in connection 
with any woman. 

The next question that occupied her mind was how to 
turn this discovery to her own advantage. This required 
careful thinking out; she held the game in her own hands 
now, and could win it when she chose with a little craft 
and patience. For too sensible a woman was Mrs. Priolo 
to ruin such a good chance by precipitancy, or to underrate 
the value of caution because success seemed sure. 

Taking up the papers again, she read the whole case 
slowly through. 

Not until she came to the very end did the full force of 
what she was reading strike her. 

To entertain a doubt of the girl's guilt was impossible 
after weighing the evidence against her. She was a mur- 
deress, and had been living with them so long unsuspected 
and undreaded — was even now alone with her benefactor! 

A very frenzy of fear seized the housekeeper and obscured 
her natural common sense. Starting up so suddenly that 
the papers fell apart and fluttered away in opposite direc- 
tions, she hastily unlocked the door, and rushed upstairs 
as though all the prisoners in Newgate were let loose and 
were following swiftly at her heels. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


73 


CHAPTER X. 

Recalling to mind his conversation with Colonel Severn, 
Mr. Bowyer felt that he had not shown to advantage — not 
behaved, in fact, as a gentleman should. He had revealed 
an eagerness to get rid of his niece which the circum- 
stances certainly did not justify, and his unbecoming men- 
tion of the sum he intended to give as a dowry had been 
downright indelicate. His long residence in the Colonies 
must have blunted his natural refinement — or was it ill- 
health that made him selfish and unmindful of the feel- 
ings of others? He was thoroughly disgusted with himself 
and honestly repentant on Ellen's account. She had been 
so good and loving to him, so grateful for what he had 
done, so anxious to repay his kindness; and latterly he had 
not been kind. 

It was the morning on which Mrs. Priolo had shut her- 
self up in her own room to master the contents of the Aus- 
tralian newspapers, and the old man was alone, with ample 
leisure to think over and regret his late conduct. It added 
to his penitence when Ellen entered the room with some 
flowers, all sweet-scented and his favorites, for the vase on 
his table. 

It was a hot oppressive day in July. Even in-doors, 
with a breeze blowing through the open window, Mr. Bow- 
yer felt languid and inert. The girl was, as usual, dressed 
in deep mourning; her thick black merino, with heavy 
folds of crape, seemed almost to weigh her down; and she 
looked so pale and tired that Mr. Bowyer felt compelled to 
notice it. 

“ Child, have you no thinner clothes? That frock is get- 
ting shabby too. I noticed yesterday how brown it looked 
in the light." 

“ The dust, I expect. We want rain badly. All my 


74 


HER OWN SISTER. 


flowers are shriveled up/* said Ellen, stooping to brush the 
hem of her skirt with her handkerchief. 

“ The dust has not robbed you of your color too, I sup- 
pose?” — dryly. 

“ Ah, that is the heat, perhaps!” 

“ Don't you think that might be mitigated by wearing 
something thinner, more suited to the weather?” 

Ellen crimsoned, but did not reply at once. She had no 
thinner gowns, and felt, as matters stood, that she could 
not accept anything from her benefactor's hand. So long 
as he had evidently felt pleasure in her presence and she 
had known that she was useful she had felt no scruples; 
but all this was altered now. Only mutual love, or at least 
sincere liking, could in her eyes do away with all feeling of 
obligation; and this there was no longer on his side; while 
she could not help resenting the sudden change, for which 
she had given no cause. 

“ It will get cooler soon,” she said, presently; and then, 
disclosing what had been in her thoughts for the past few 
weeks, she added, 4 4 1 think sometimes that this idleness 
is not the best thing for me. It gives me too much time 
for thought. And, then, why should I be a burden to you 
all my life? Don't imagine,” she continued, earnestly, 
after a moment, going closer, then kneeling beside his chair 
— “ don't imagine that I like to leave you — that it will not 
pain me more than you can guess to cut myself adrift from 
the shelter you have given me. Your wonderful kindness 
to me, an entire stranger, is a puzzle to me still. It was 
so generous, so noble of you to stand by me and lend me 
such powerful aid when even those who had been my 
friends held aloof. I have accepted your goodness freely, 
as I know it was ungrudgingly offered; but now — now I 
think it best for both our sakes that we should part. ” 

“ And what do you think of doing?” 

The words sounded cold, almost unfeeling, in contrast 
with the fervor of her speech; but in reality Mr. Bowyer 


HER OWN SISTER. 75 

was deeply hurt and ashamed that his own conduct should 
have led to this. 

Not an accent of reproach had been in her voice, only 
love and gratitude; but he knew, as surely as though she 
had told him in plain words, that she wished to go because 
she felt she was no longer welcome. Uncomfortable and 
ill at ease, he took refuge in apparent displeasure at her 
suggestion. 

“ I thought of going as a governess,” she answered, 
timidly. 

“ You are well qualified, of course?” 

“ I know a little French; I can play and sing — that more 
for my own amusement than other people's pleasure, I am 
afraid.” 

He shook his head. 

“ Your voice is charming, but — forgive me for saying so 
— it is quite untrained; and nowadays so much is required 
from a governess. ” 

“ Then a companion. At least I can read aloud, and 
make myself generally useful ” — with a little hurt pride. 

“Are you aware that for every situation as companion 
there are not less than fifty applicants?” 

“ Still by some lucky chance I might be the successful 
one.” 

“ You might,” agreed Mr. Bowyer, but with no convic- 
tion in his tones. 

“ Well, I can act. Why should I not go on the stage, 
under a feigned name?” 

His eyes met hers gravely. 

“ You know as well as I do what objections there are to 
that scheme.” 

“ You mean that I should be recognized, tracked — that 
I might as well have never attempted to escape? Do you 
know that often I am tempted to go back of my own ac- 
cord, and — and take my chancer” 

Such a world of bitterness and despair lay in her tones 


76 


HER OWH BISTER. 


that Mr. Bowyer felt moved to deepest pity, and his own 
voice grew tremulous as he replied: 

“ Do you think me cruel to speak so? It is not that I 
am trying to prove that all doors are closed against you — it 
is because I want to keep you with me. When I offered 
you escape and a home, I did not act unadvisedly and with- 
out thought. I weighed the matter well, and resolved that, 
if I interfered at all, it should be to some purpose. When 
once I meddled with your fate I felt I was responsible for 
your future. And, Ellen, it has been a pleasure as well as 
a duty to try to make you happy; don't tell me I have 
failed!" 

He spoke with enthusiasm and warmth, as'in the old days 
when he had pleaded the cause of others and won renown. 
For a moment he believed all he said himself, so no wonder 
he convinced her. 

“ Forgive me!" she whispered, humbly, and covered the 
thin hand that was laid gently on her shoulder with pas- 
sionately grateful kisses. “ You are always right, always 
good. It is I — I who am wrong, misguided, and unjust." 

He laughed nervously, as though in deprecation of her 
praise. 

“ I don't suppose I shall keep you always," he said. 
“ Tell me — how do you like the colonel's son?" 

“ Very much. He is a dear boy, so thoughtful and kind, 
like — " Like his father, she had been going to add, then 
suddenly, seeing the drift of his question, stopped short. 

“ Anything like the husband you have doubtless pict- 
ured to yourself?"—- smiling slyly. 

“ Husband? He? Oh, Mr. Bowyer, surely you forget!" 
she cried, in horrified surprise. 

“I have forgotten nothing; but I think it is time the 
past should be ignored. Let it be a dream from which you 
have happily awakened to begin a new life. " 

“ You do not know — " 

“ I know nothing," he interrupted, quickly; “ nor do I 


HER OWN SISTER. 


77 


wisli to pry into your secrets. If you have sinned, expia- 
tion is possible without despair. Lead a happy, healthy 
life, and that will teach you to forget.” 

“ Do you mean,” she said, in a low, strained voice, 
“ that you seriously counsel me to marry Mr. Severn?” 
Then, starting to her feet, she broke out impatiently, with- 
out giving him time to reply, “ We are talking idly; I shall 
never marry, whatever happens; and he— he has never 
dreamed of such a thing.” 

te Do not be too sure of that. His father spoke to me 
yesterday, and I expressed the pleasure I felt at the con- 
nection, and told him — 1 did not wish that they should 
think you portionless and friendless— that on your wedding- 
day I would give you twenty thousand pounds. ” 

It was in Ellen's heart to cry out bitterly, “ Is the bur- 
den of my presence so great that you would give such a 
sum as that to free yourself from it?” but, remembering 
all she owed him, she refrained. She only repeated — 

“ I shall never marry — never! You are goodness and 
generosity itself; but I want no money — no money — only 
love. ” 

“ My dear, there is no reason you should not have both. 
The young fellow must speak for himself.” 

A silence ensued, during which the old fear once more 
obtruded itself on the Anglo-Australian's miqd. Was she 
indeed guilty of that crime? Nervously fixing his gaze on 
her half-averted face, he studied it until to his overwrought 
imagination it seemed as if the clear-cut features grew dis- 
torted with fury, the large sorrowful eyes became fiend-like 
in their unquenchable animosity and desire for revenge. 
Love and jealousy could, he well knew, transform what 
might have been angelic to deviltry incarnate. Had such 
influences worked in her? 

When Ellen turned round a moment later, she saw that 
he was trembling violently, with both hands grasping the 


78 


HER OWN SISTER. 


arms of his chair, while his drooping jaw and widely 
opened eyes seemed to denote intense pain or terror. 

4 4 You are ill!” she cried, springing up and fetching a 
decanter hastily from the other room, and pouring some 
brandy into a glass. 

He drank about a spoonful slowly; then the color, of 
which every trace had gone from his face, returned, and 
he forced a faint smile. 

“ Don’t be frightened. It is only nervousness — nervous 
debility, I suppose it would be called. Some senseless idea 
seizes my mind and grows in horror till — till I lose all con- 
trol over myself.” 

“ You must see the doctor again. It is dreadful for you 
to suffer so.” 

“ He can not help me. It is purely mental. In the 
autumn we will go away for a change— that will do me 
good. Don’t look so alarmed, child; I am all right again 
now.” 

“But looking so pale and weak! Oh, if I could only do 
something for you — give you some of my useless health and 
strength!” 

“You have none too much of that yourself,” he re- 
plied, dryly. 

She opened the window wider, and pushed his chair 
more forward, so that he could see out, then went to re- 
mind Mrs. *Priolo that it was twelve o’clock, and time for 
the invalid to have his soup. 

Ten minutes later she came back with it herself. 

She had toasted a thin piece of bread for him too, and 
was persuading him to try to eat it, when the housekeeper 
burst in and dragged the tray so roughly from her hands 
that nearly all the soup was spilled. At the same time she 
directed such a malicious glance at Ellen that the girl 
shrunk backward and dared not remonstrate. Mr. Bowyer 
however turned on her severely. 

“ What do you mean, madamer” he inquired so sternly 


HER OWN SISTER. 


79 


that Mrs. Priolo was recalled at once to prudence and her 
senses. 

Was she mad to have acted so — thus to have shown her 
hatred of the girl and revealed the knowledge she pos- 
sessed, which she could use with more effect at some other 
time? She had lost her head for the moment. Even 
though the girl was a murderess, it did not follow that, 
like a tigress who has tasted blood, she should continue a 
course of killing. 

With something between a laugh and a sob, she stam- 
mered an incoherent excuse — the soup was not ready; she 
had forgotten to flavor it. Then, not waiting to hear Mr. 
Bowyer’s testy rejoinder, she fled precipitately, tray in 
hand. 

Ellen, bewildered and frightened, without knowing why, 
had also left the room, and was now prone upon her bed, 
weeping passionately bitter tears. It seemed as though no 
one wanted her, no one loved her — as though in all the 
wide, wide world there was no such desolate homeless waif 
as she. 


CHAPTER XL 

In Ellen Wardens sad thoughts the only brightness sprung 
from her friendship with the Severns. Intuitively aware 
of the colonePs interest in her, though to herself she called 
it only kindly feeling, she could not but like him in return, 
and by some subtle instinct guessed that if she ever needed 
help he would risk anything to serve her. But she would 
never put it to the proof. His dark eyes, grave at times 
even to severity, had somehow impressed her with the belief 
that he would be pitiful indeed and tender, but that the 
mere fact of a woman's needing such tenderness would rob 
her of his esteem. From what he had said she had not 
failed to discover that his ideal of womanhood was a high 
one. She would not like him even to know that she had 


80 


HER 0 WN SISTER. 


been on the stage; but she felt that she would well-nigh 
sink into the ground with shame were he to discover what 
had driven her into exile. 

Charlie she feared less. He liked her for herself unques- 
tioningly; and, if she elected to accept his love, she thought 
he would not alter. 

Since Mr. Bowyer had spoken to her about it, she had 
felt sorely tempted at times to avail herself of the haven 
that it opened to her. None could tell how she yearned 
for such a rest; and it might never be offered to her again. 
He loved her sincerely now; but he was very young — 
younger by a year than she herself — and would soon recover 
from the blow if she refused him. Could she afford to 
thrust this happiness from her? Love was a turmoil and a 
pain — having loved once, she knew the sorrow of it; but to 
be beloved — ah, that would be indeed heaven, she thought. 

All day long she hesitated, but in the afternoon, when 
Charlie came to try his fate, full of happy boyish enthusi- 
asm tempered with a little boyish shyness, she knew at 
once that only one answer was possible. It would be a 
crime to give him less than he offered her, a whole un- 
divided love; nor could she ease the burden she bore by lay- 
ing it across his shoulders too. She could not doubly wreck 
his life. 

Such a tender light was in her eyes as she went to meet 
him that no wonder the young fellow was deceived for a 
moment and his heart leaped high with hope. 

“ I — I am so glad you are alone; I want to speak to you. 
Will you walk a little way with me?” he begged earnestly, 
anxious to get beyond sight of the windows and possible 
lookers on. 

She had come into the garden to meet him, so as not to 
disturb Mr. Bowyer, who was asleep; her hat was in her 
hand, and in answer to his request she put it on. 

“ Which way shall we go?” she asked. 

“ Any way — anywhere so that it be together!” was what 


HER OWN SISTER. 


SI 


the boy thought; but he managed to stammer something 
more conventional instead, and went on talking till they 
stood alone and unobserved in a shady lane not far from 
the house. Then he turned and faced her recklessly, feel- 
ing the suspense too horrible to bear — that he must know 
his fate at once. 

“Ellen, I love you! Will you be my wife?” 

A crimson flush rose to her cheeks. Ah, it was sweet, 
sweeter than she had thought, to hear such words! She 
did so thirst for love — love and sympathy. Must she dash 
the cup away untasted? Some women are so rich in love 
and happiness that they could listen unmoved to such a 
story; some are so constituted that it could cause only a 
feeling of repulsion; but to Ellen this love which she did 
not, could never return came as a great temptation. 

“ Can’t you love me, dear? Won’t you be my wife?” 

Simple words, yet tender, and his voice shook with emo- 
tion as he spoke them. Eloquent enough at times, just 
now he was too eager for a reply to say much himself. 

Slowly she raised her eyes to his — hers so sad and full of 
unutterable longing for love, happiness, and a home; his 
so passionate and love-compelling. His tightly compressed 
lips gave evidence of determination, his whole face was 
aglow with love and hope. 

“Iam very sorry,” she began. 

He caught her hands and nearly crushed them in his 
strong clasp as the stereotyped words fell upon his ear. 

“ Don’t — don’t say that,” he interrupted imploringly, 
“ unless you wish to break my heart! I love you so — I 
love you so! You must not— can not refuse me!” 

She smiled sadly and shook her head, and said — 

“If it were only that I do not love you as you deserve 
to be loved — ” 

“ If it were only that I could teach you!” — eagerly. 

“ But it is more — far more.” 

“ you — you love some one else?” he asked in a low voice. 


82 


HER OWN SISTER. 


not looking at her, feeling that it was a dreadful indelicacy 
to ask her such a question, yet knowing he could have no 
peace without a reply. “ I might have known/' he con- 
tinued sadly, when she had answered with a single mono- 
syllable of assent. “ You are so far above me in every way, 
I ought to have known I had no chance; I was mad— pre- 
sumptuous!" 

“ You are no such thing," she retorted, quickly. “ Ah, 
if you only knew, you would say it was I who was un- 
worthy! I — I — Great heavens, am I so hypocritical, so 
false, as to appear better than I am — is my whole life a 
deceit?" 

He -looked up eagerly. 

“ If," he said half hesitatingly— “ if I thought you really 
meant that — if I could believe that there was something in 
your life which perhaps — forgive me for saying so, it seems 
so impossible, so insulting — but, if there were something 
you were ashamed of and did not wish to be known — " 

“ Well?" she interrogated gently, as he hesitated still. 

“ I would implore you not to let that stand between us. 
Oh, my darling, I love you so dearly that nothing can 
make any difference! I would believe nothing against you 
unless you confessed it yourself — scarcely then. And, even 
if I were forced to believe it, it could make no difference. 
Do you think anything could change or weaken my love?" 
She smiled sadly; the tears were nearly falling from her 
eyes. Once again the temptation came over her to resist 
no more, to allow herself so to be loved. The boy was so 
deeply in earnest, so handsome and so lovable ! His eyes 
were gazing into hers, burning and melting by turns — his 
face was near her own — she could feel his breath upon her 
cheek. He was so tall and strong and stalwart, so full of 
youth and energy! She felt that, with her head upon. his 
breast, his arms about her, she could rest in safety and be 
happy, even though she loved another. Then she turned 
away from him and broke the spell. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


83 


“ It is all useless. There is a reason why I shall never 
marry; but I like you very much, and am so sorry to give 
you pain.” 

He looked at her in mute distress. 

“ Good-bye,” she said. 

“ Good-bye,” he answered sadly. 

When she had gone a little way, she turned, and saw that 
he was sitting on a fallen tree, his head buried in his hands 
Some impulse of compassion prompted her to return. She 
knew so well what it was to suffer, and to suffer alone. 

“ Don’t fret,” she said wistfully, laying her hand gently 
upon his shoulder. “ Nothing is worth such sorrow.” 

For he was sobbing like a child, and so absorbed in his 
grief that he had not heard her approach him. 

Now he raised his face, red with embarrassment, all the 
fire gone from his blue eyes. 

“You must despise me for giving way so, but I thought 
you had gone; and — and it is forever.” 

“ No, no: you will forget after awhile; then we can be 
friends again. You are so young — younger than I am, 
you know — and it is only natural you should forget. ” 

A vehement, if incoherent denial, in spite of which she 
insisted — 

“ Yes, of course you will forget! You will meet some 
one a thousand times nicer some day and come and tell me 
all about her; and I will listen so patiently to all your rapt- 
ures, and be so glad to see you happy again. It will make 
me miserable to think of you as you are now. You will 
try, won’t you, to forget me soon?” 

She had kept her hand upon his shoulder to prevent him 
from rising, and now passed it gently over his curly hair. 
It was done caressingly, yet it gave him only pain. Some- 
thing told him that she would never touch him so if she 
cared for him in the slightest degree. There was no hope 
for him — none ! 

When he raised his head again, she was gone — out of 


84 


HER OWN SISTER. 


sight already. Slowly he rose and wended his way toward 
home. 

The colonel was seated at his writing-table, pen in hand. 
Ever since his son had left, nearly two hours before, look- 
ing so bright and handsome as he passed the window, in 
smart morning-coat and j aunty-looking hat, he had been 
in almost the same position, yet little or nothing had been 
transferred to the papers that lay before him. What he 
had done he had done mechanically. All his thoughts 
were centered on the scene that was then being enacted. 
He could scarcely restrain his impatience to know the re- 
sult of the venture — whether Ellen would say “ Yes ” or 
“No.” 

When Charlie came in at last, the colonel looked up in- 
quiringly, but could frame no question — nor was it neces- 
sary. A single glance told him that the boy’s errand had 
been an unsuccessful one, dejection and rejection were 
written so plainly on his face. 

For a moment George Severn experienced a jealous pleas- 
ure that it had been so, a deep relief that it would not be 
required of him to welcome to a daughter’s place the 
woman whom he would fain have won as wife. Then he 
felt ashamed and repentant. When Charlie, with a heavy 
sigh, threw himself on a settee, he was conscious only of a 
sympathetic sorrow. 

“ My poor boy — I am so grieved! Is there no hope?” 

“ None. I was a fool to fancy I could ever have a 
chance. She loves some one else. To her I am only a 
boy. She won’t believe how 1 love her; she — she — ” 

The sentence ended in a stifled sob. 

Colonel Severn became strangely silent. Had Charlie 
raised his eyes, he must have been aware that the blow 
which had prostrated him had not been without its effect 
upon his father. But he was self-absorbed, and saw noth- 
ing. 

“ She said there was some secret — some reason why she 


HER OWN SISTER. 


85 


would never marry,” he observed ruefully, after a short 
pause. 

Severn paced the room for several minutes in agitated 
silence. When he stopped at length before his son, his ex- 
pression was composed, and only a little tightness of the 
lips, a certain hard look in the eyes, might have betrayed 
to a close observer how he had suffered and was suffering 
still. 

“ Don't you think, Charlie, that it is for the best per- 
haps?” he suggested, in a strangely gentle voice. “ You 
must not think me unfeeling in saying so, but, if there 
were any secret trouble that involved perhaps disgrace — ” 

“The more reason why I should bear it with her!" 
broke in the young fellow hotly. “You don't mean to 
say, dad, that you'd give her up for such a cause as that?” 

“ I — I?” — in some astonishment. “ This is no question 
of what I should do at all. The two cases will admit of no 
comparison. Were I in such a case, it would be very 
different. The best years of my life are spent, and I have 
a right to do what I choose with the remainder; but you 
are only beginning your career — it behooves you to be care- 
ful not to wreck it at the outset. " 

“ Then you think it is something — something shameful? 
Oh, father, if you knew her as well as I do, you would not 
wrong her so! You don't know how innocent and true 
she is. Every word she speaks seems to make one long to 
be better than one is; and her smile — ■" 

It was Colonel Severn's turn to interrupt. 

“Those are love rhapsodies,'' he said, with rather a 
forced smile. “ All the same, if it be any comfort to you, 
I will confess I share your opinion. I believe her to be all 
that is sweet and womanly. If there is any guilt to conceal 
it is not hers — certainly not hers.” 

His son grasped his hand warmly. 

“ It is a comfort to hear you say that,” he assured hinu 
“ You are always ready to sympathize and help. I don't 


86 


HER OWN SISTER. 


believe” — with an affectionate upward glance — “ any 
other fellow has such a father. ” 

“It is just as well you think so, my boy, because — for 
the present at least — we must be all-sufficient to each other . 99 

“ But you — you won’t mind my going away for a bit? 
I don’t feel as if I could meet her again just yet.” 

“You shall go where you like and do what you like. 
Fortunately it is no longer a question of ways and means. 
If you care to go to Paris — 99 

“ London will do well enough, and Lysley of the Guards 
asked me to stay with him. The season is not over — at 
any rate, there is more going on there than anywhere else, 
I suppose. Not that I am in the mood for gayeties at all,” 
he added quickly. 

A half smile flitted across the elder man’s grave face, 
but it was instantly suppressed. 

“ Then London it shall be,” he said, and found it in his 
heart to wish that he could so break away from the chains 
that bound him, and believe it possible that a little gayety 
or change might mitigate, even cure, his pain. 

“ Young man’s love burnetii up brightly and is done, 

But old man’s love burnetii deeply to the bone.” 

Some couplet to this effect he remembered to have read, 
and acknowledged now its truth. This hopeless passion 
which consumed him was stronger than himself. It kept 
him in the vicinity of Ellen Warde against his better judg- 
ment — almost against his will. J ust to know that she was 
near — that when he wished it he could see her — was enough; 
and, though she loved another, some day it might be that 
she would lean upon his friendship, ask him for his aid — for 
somehow he was convinced that she would need help before 
long. Everything pointed in that direction. Her guard- 
ian’s altered feelings, the old housekeeper’s evident ani- 
mosity, and then this secret which she had hinted at — all 


HER OWN SISTER. 


87 


betokened future trouble for her whose safety might be 
threatened at any moment. 

\ es, certainly he would stay there still, ready to watch 
events on her behalf, to guard her so far as he was able. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Mrs. Priolo had decided on her plan of action. It had 
flashed upon her instantaneously when, as she snatched 
away the soup that morning, her eyes lighted for a second 
upon Ellen's white frightened face. She had seen in col- 
umns of police news how a previous conviction told against 
a prisoner, and she resolved she would work on that idea. 

Her terror that morning had been genuine, though sense- 
less, as she now saw; but it was not impossible that Mr. 
Bowyer, in his present nervous excitable state, might be 
brought really to believe that what the girl had done once 
she might do again, were the motive sufficiently strong. 
But first she must find out how much Mr. Bowyer knew — 
whether by any chance he was unacquainted with all that 
had occurred in Sydney that winter. She was also anxious 
to discover if he had mentioned to Ellen his intention of 
giving her so large an amount for her dowry. 

With this idea in her brain, she took her work and sat 
with Mr. Bowyer one afternoon when Ellen was out sketch- 
ing. 

It was Mr. Bowyer who by chance opened the subject 
that she was anxious to discuss. 

44 Where is Ellen?''’ he asked. 

44 Gone out with her drawing materials. She went about 
an hour ago. " 

4 4 Ah, sketching is a great resource! I am glad she has 
an occupation to amuse her. Since we have been here, I 
don't fancy the child has looked so well. What do you 
think, Mrs. Priolo?" 


88 


HER OWK SISTER. 


“ I have been thinking so myself. It seems to me as 
though she gave way too much. Of course ” —a little 
tartly — “ I am quite in the dark as to the reason of her 
grief, and I do not know for whom she wears such very 
deep mourning; but it is more than a year now since she 
came to you — long enough for any young woman to get 
over a healthy sorrow.” 

Mr. Bowyer walked over to the window and looked out. 
“ There are different degrees in every thing,” he said, after 
a while. “ It is difficult for any outsider to mark the 
limits of another’s grief. She, poor child, has had a ter- 
rible experience indeed; small wonder she finds it impossi- 
ble to forget. 39 

It was to Mrs. Priolo’s interest to appear to know noth- 
ing of Ellen Warde’s past, in order that whatever she 
should bring against her hereafter might have more 
weight; so she struck in quickly, lest by any chance he 
should think of telling her the story — 

“ Still brooding does no good. She should make an 
effort to shake it off. You must tell her so, Mr. Bowyer 
— she will listen to you. The poor girl seems to have 
taken an unaccountable dislike to me, and would resent any 
interference on my part.” 

The old man turned and looked at her shrewdly. 

“ It is the first time I have heard of this dislike. May I 
inquire the reason of it?” 

“ I am sure I don’t know, unless — ” 

“ Unless?” 

“ She’s a strange girl, not affectionate by nature, but 
possessing a very clear knowledge of the value of money— 
or rather the things money can procure.” 

“You give her a good character ” — dryly. 

“ The faults of youth,” observed the housekeeper in- 
dulgently — “ she will outgrow them. When she is my age, 
she will know that riches can not purchase happiness — that 
friendship and affection are worth far more.” 


HER OWN SISTER. 


89 


“ Yes — exactly. But you were goiug to explain her dis- 
like to you.” 

“ Ah, poor child, that is jealousy, I sometimes think! 
She has set her heart upon inheriting your fortune, and 
fancies” — laughing gayly — “that I have designs upon it 
too.” 

Mr. Bowyer' s face was still turned from her, so the 
housekeeper could not judge of the effect of her words. 
She went on carelessly — 

“No, no, she need have no fear of me! Before she 
came, the thought may have crossed my mind that per- 
haps, as I was your only relative, you might remember me 
in your will; but directly Ellen Warde appeared I re- 
linquished the idea without a sigh. I knew you too well to 
believe that you would enrich a comparatively distant con- 
nection at the expense of your own sister's child. I am too 
just myself to wish such a thing.” 

Mr. Bowyer made no attempt either to substantiate or to 
deny the truth of her assertion. 

“Strange," went on Mrs. Priolo thoughtfully, “that 
my husband should never have mentioned he had a sister — 
it must have been a sister, as the name is different. He 
so often spoke of you with deepest affection! Before he 
died he said, 4 Robert will welcome you as his own sister. 
You will never need a friend. ' He spoke truly — I never 
have.” 

The housekeeper, in her anxiety to impress upon her 
brother-in-law what was his duty, had overreached herself. 
Mr. Bowyer saw that she suspected there was no relation- 
ship between himself and his ward, saw too that she was 
not so indifferent as to the disposal of his wealth as she 
affected to be. He smiled a little cynically as he replied — 

“ You will find that I have not forgotten the faithful 
service of the last ten years, nor the fact that you were 
once my brother's wife.” 

“ You are too good,” murmured Mrs. Priolo. 


90 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ Half of my fortune is left to you.” 

“ Half!” echoed Mrs. Priolo, various emotions mingling 
in her low excited tone. There was some surprise at this 
unusual outspokenness on her employer's part, curiosity as 
to who else was to share his bounty, pleasure that at least 
so much was assured to her, chagrin that she was not to re- 
ceive more. Half his fortune would be no inconsiderable 
sum, as she knew well; but why should she not have all? 

“ Half,” went on Mr. Bowyer, calmly, “ will belong to 
Ellen.” 

The housekeeper started to her feet, and her work, fall- 
ing to the ground, was swept along by her stiff silk gown 
as she hurriedly crossed the room. 

“Have you told her this?” she inquired, laying her 
hand heavily on his arm. 

“ Why do you ask?” 

“ Tell me,” she requested sharply. 

Mr. Bowyer's nervousness began to show itself in a vio- 
lent trembling, which he tried in vain to control. His face 
twitched painfully. 

“ I told her that she would have twenty thousand pounds 
when she married,” he answered at last, with an effort. 

“ And you said nothing about your will to her?” 

“ Nothing — so far as I can remember.” 

“ Then don't tell her now, I beg and implore you,” was 
the reply, in which intense relief and earnest entreaty were 
excellently simulated. 

The old man could not but be impressed by her manner, 
though he tried hard to maintain the shrewd judgment and 
keen insight on which he had formerly prided himself. 

“ I am at a loss to understand your motive for speaking 
so,” he remarked stiffly. 

For a moment there was a pause, while Mrs. Priolo 
picked up her wool and disentangled the skeins with elabo- 
rate care. She was wondering how much she dared say. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


91 


how much he was prepared to believe. Then, with dia- 
bolical cunning, she decided to remain silent, and let what 
she had already said take root. Thus she would remain 
unimplicated; and nothing she could invent would be so 
horrible, she knew, as those nameless unspoken terrors 
that press upon a mind diseased. 

“ I have no motive. We women have very little judg- 
ment, and no logic; but we have a weapon of our own to 
defend ourselves and — and those dear to us. Instinct 
prompted me to say what I did. Even to myself it seems 
absurd and uncalled for. But " — with a little catch in 
her voice which might have made her fortune had the stage 
been her profession — “ don't disregard my warning." 

Mr. Bowyer opened his mouth to speak, but no words 
came. He was so deeply agitated that he could not even 
affect composure any longer. Sinking into his chair, he 
leaned back with closed eyes and pallid face; while Mrs. 
Priolo, alarmed at the effect of her words, hastily fetched 
her smelling-salts from the mantel-piece, and chafed his 
hands, which were icy cold. 

“ Forgive me!" she said impulsively. “ I have fright- 
ened myself and you needlessly, I am sure. There can be 
no sense in my fears. Forget all I have said, or disbelieve 
it." 

She spoke these words in all good faith. Unprincipled 
schemer though she was, her heart was not quite so hard 
that she could look unmoved upon the suffering she herself 
had caused to one who had been her benefactor. For the 
moment she was honestly anxious to withdraw the sting 
which she had planted; but her words had an opposite 
effect to that intended. Mr. Bowyer, detecting the ring 
of real feeling in her voice, jumped to the conclusion that 
all she had said and implied was true, or at least that she 
believed it so. If she wanted to retract what she had said, 
it was on his account, because she did not think him strong 
enough to face what she feared. 


92 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ It is nothing. I often have these attacks/’ he said 
faintly, trying to reassure her. 

She appeared to accept his explanation. 

“You are looking better now. The doctors here don’t 
seem to understand your case; the place itself does not suit 
you. Why not go back to Australia?” 

44 I wish to Heaven I could!” he cried, too utterly 
broken down to preserve his usual caution. 

44 Why should you not?” 

4 4 Because there is such a thing as honor, which gentle- 
men are bound to consider; because a promise must be 
kept at all hazards, all risks; because I have made a mis- 
take and must abide by it.” 

The housekeeper knew well to what he alluded, and her 
pulses beat with excitement and triumph. So far she had 
succeeded in her plans; the affection which Mr. Bowyer 
had once felt for his protegee was rapidly changing to aver- 
sion or something very much like it. He had begun to 
suspect her, doubt her, and already felt the care of her, to 
which he had pledged himself, a burden he would gladly 
throw off if he could. He was too honorable to do so with- 
out a cause; it remained for Mrs. Priolo to find an incon- 
testable reason why the obligation should cease and the girl 
be abandoned to her own devices. 

44 You know best, of course,” she observed demurely, 
reseating herself. 44 But remember there is a duty one 
owes to one’s self, as well as that claimed by others.” 

Mr. Bowyer did not reply. Looking up furtively now 
and then, Mrs. Priolo saw that he was in deep and anxious 
thought. She would have given much to discover what was 
passing through his brain — much to know how far he would 
succumb to the fear that evidently possessed him. 

How changed he was! A year ago she might as well have 
whistled to the wind as have tried to persuade him that any 
one had designs upon his fortune or his life. He would 
have seen through her at a glance, and laughed at her in- 


HER OWH SISTER. 


*93 


sinuations, if indeed he had not dismissed her instantly 
from his service. Then she would never have dared to 
speak to him so, for fear of bringing upon herself the fate 
she was preparing for another; but now he was a different 
man — so weak in mind and body that he was at the mercy 
of those about him. One thing seemed certain, that if she 
obtained her desire she would not have long to wait for 
the money she coveted so strongly. His life would not 
have been considered worth a year’s purchase by a less in- 
terested person than the woman who watched him then as 
he sat by the open window, bent nearly double from weak- 
ness, his face thin to transparency, and his frail hands 
clasping the arms of his chair — a frequent action of his now, 
as though he felt the need of support. 

Ellen Warde’s voice was heard outside, and he shrunk 
back nervously. 

“ You are not well enough to be disturbed now. Shall 
I tell Miss Warde not to come in just yet?” asked the 
housekeeper, divining his thoughts. 

He looked up with eager gratitude for her help, and 
made a gesture of assent. 

Yet, when she left the room to carry out her suggestion, 
he felt ashamed and regretful — he scarcely knew why. In 
the housekeeper’s presence those doubts and fears she 
seemed to share had appeared reasonable; but, now he was 
alone, he wondered at his own credulity. Ellen’s voice had 
somehow reminded him of Ellen’s face— the sad gray eyes 
and patient mouth which were so like those of the only 
woman whom he had ever loved and whose life he had 
spoiled by his mean suspicions. Was it his nature to doubt, 
or was it his unhappy fate to meet only with those un- 
worthy of trust? 

The problem was a hard one — too hard for him to solve 
in his present weak excited state; and he relinquished the 
effort with a sigh. 

When Mrs. Priolo returned, she found that, utterly ex- 


HER OWN SISTER. 


94 - 

hausted by the mental conflict through which she had caused 
him to pass, he had fallen into a deep sleep. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

“ Ahd so you sent my poor boy away?” 

Colonel Severn was the speaker. He had strolled over 
to the Dower House one evening after dinner, and, Mr. 
Bowyer being indisposed and in his own room, and Mrs. 
Priolo seldom intruding when visitors were there, it so hap- 
pened that for the last half-hour he and Ellen Warde had 
been in the pretty dimly-lighted sitting-room alone. 

At first they had talked only of generalities, but the 
colonel suddenly broached the subject of which both had 
been thinking, and Ellen's pale face flushed crimson as she 
answered, meekly deprecating his displeasure — 

“ I could not help it — indeed it could not have been 
otherwise. I hope you are not angry with me?” 

“Angry? No.” 

An involuntary snide flitted across his face — anger was 
so utterly opposed to the feelings that had been in his heart 
when his son had told of his discomfiture. Detecting in a 
moment his expression of amusement, Ellen drew herself 
up haughtily — her versatility of mood was not her least 
charm in George Severn's eyes. 

“I forgot,” she said bitterly— “ most probably you 
thought it a subject for self-congratulation that your son 
had escaped marriage with one of whom you know abso- 
lutely nothing. The heir to Gorst Abbey should naturally 
look higher. " 

“ Miss Warde, how can you do me such injustice? For 
my son's sake I was sincerely grieved — I could not have 
wished for him a sweeter wife; if for my own sake I was 
selfishly glad, can't you understand that it would, have been 
hard for me to lose a friend, even though at the same mo- 


HER OWN SISTER. 


95 


ment I gained a daughter? Of course it might be possible 
to combine the two — only I should not care for such a com- 
bination. " 

Ellen's eyes were fixed demurely on her work. If her 
heart beat a little faster, responsive to the meaning in his 
tone, there was no outward sign of confusion as her needle 
flew swiftly in and out. 

“ You see," went on the colonel, with rather a comical 
expression about his mouth, “ I have never felt the need of 
a daughter; the possession of one would doubtless add to 
the comfort of my old age — but I don't feel that approach- 
ing yet." 

“ Of course not. You are quite young. It seemed ab- 
surd to think of you as the father of your son. " 

“ I was forty-five a month ago; but somehow I have 
never felt so young as lately. My existence has been a very 
lonely one since I had to part with my boy. I married 
when I was one or two and twenty; up to that time I had 
scarcely spoken to a woman, and afterward, when my wife 
deid, I was content with my child's companionship. 
When he left me, the thought of him still filled my life; I 
never cared to form a friendship even — not a real friend- 
ship — though I liked many of the men in my regiment and 
met with great kindness and good-fellowship from them. 
Do you know, Miss Warde, that when I returned from 
India, gray-haired veteran as I may seem to you, I had 
never been in love?" 

Was it the flickering light, as a sudden wind sprung up 
and swept in through the open window, that made the girl 
seem so pale? Only for a moment. Quickly she recovered 
herself, and laughed lightly as she replied — 

“ Do you expect pity for that? Why, I think you are to 
be envied, having had no doubts and fears, no disappoint- 
ments, no sentimental troubles of any sort." 

“ Is that your real opinion?" he asked her, gravely. 

Do you really think love is of so little worth that the 


96 


HER OWN SISTER. 


pains and penalties which accompany it sometimes are too 
heavy a price to pay?” 

She was as grave as he now; a wistful look was in her 
eyes, as though a happiness were within her reach which yet 
she must not stretch out her hand to grasp. 

“ It does not matter what I think,” she said; “my 
future is decided, and love has no partin it.” 

She shivered slightly as she spoke, and he rose and closed 
the window. 

“ It is getting chilly in the evening now. The summer 
is nearly over. ” 

Silently she assented, and once more all her attention 
was given to her work, while he sat and watched her. 

How slight — almost delicate — she looked, yet with some- 
thing of dignity and self-reliance that sat strangely on her 
child-like face and willowy pliant form! What was it made 
her so unlike any other woman he had ever met? Severn 
wondered. Was it the bright hair, falling in soft rings on 
her forehead and her neck, as though resenting the boyish 
fashion into which it had been forced, that contrasted so 
oddly with the womanly sweetness of her mouth and ap- 
pealing pathos of her large gray eyes? She was such a 
strange mixture of weakness and strength, gayety and sad- 
ness. It seemed as if cruel circumstances had compelled 
her to belie her nature. What was this mystery which 
shadowed her life? Had it anything to do with the love 
which, according to Charlie, she had already given — to her 
cost, as he opined? 

That being so, there was no chance for him. Ah, well, 
he was a man, and could bear pain, perhaps stamp it out 
in time by the force of his strong will! But she, poor child, 
brave as she was, how could she battle successfully with 
hopeless love as well as that other secret sorrow? 

“ Let me help you if I can!” he exclaimed impulsively. 

Ellen looked up in sore surprise, not comprehending at 
first. Then, understanding that he spoke with reference to 


HER own SISTER. 


97 


his own thoughts, not in answer to anything she had said, 
she smiled gratefully. 

“ If there is anything I ever want, I will ask you — I 
promise, " she said sweetly. 

Their hands met in a firm clasp for an instant. Then 
Colonel Severn changed the subject. 

“ I heard from Charlie to-day. I fancy he is enjoying 
himself in spite of his resolve to be miserable. His friends 
seem to belong to rather a reckless set. I only hope they 
won't lead him into any mischief." 

“ Why, what do you fear for him?" asked Ellen. 

“ Nothing definite. I suppose it is a parent's privilege 
to be anxious without reason. He is such a good open- 
hearted fellow, but impressionable, and too easily led. I 
should not like him to get intimate with the acquaintances 
he has made lately. There is an actress — " 

“ Do you object to his associating with her?" — laying 
down her work, and looking steadily into his face. 

“ I don't think it will do him any good. You think me 
uncharitable, I see. Perhaps I am; but I should like to 
keep his idea of womanhood high, which he can best do by 
knowing only women whose associations are refined, whose 
purity is beyond question. Now an actress leads a life of 
spurious excitement that must necessarily — " 

“ Stop!" cried Ellen, raising her hand with an imperious 
gesture. “ I have been an actress myself. Don't say any- 
thing you might regret." 

She had risen to her feet; and he too rose, feeling utterly 
bewildered, and scarcely trusting his own ears. That this 
stern child, with her innocent big eyes and shy yet winning 
ways, should ever have trod the stage and faced a mixed 
audience seemed impossible — absurd. The mere thought 
of it enraged him. She, his little love, who had crept so 
securely into his heart that nothing now could ever displace 
her, to have been the central object of such a crowd, liable 
to coarse criticism and still more brutal admiration — oh, 

4 


98 


kEIl OWK SISTER. 

it would be maddening if true! But it was not true! It 
could not be! She was testing him — trying how much he 
could credit against her. 

“You don’t believe me, but it was so really; and you 
must not think I am ashamed of it. It is as honorable a 
profession as any other; and I could have been very happy 
in it if— if — 99 

Her voice broke, and she turned away her head to hide 
the hot stinging tears that had sprung into her eyes as bit- 
ter recollections came surging through her brain. He 
thought she was hurt at what he had said. 

“ I am a brute; and have offended you beyond recall,” 
he declared at last, so humbly that, if she had felt any 
wrath, it must have melted away; “ but I was speaking 
carelessly, and on a subject of which I know nothing. Re- 
member I have been all my life in India, and am naturally 
old fashioned and narrow in my views. They are sub- 
verted from this moment. The mere fact of your having 
adopted it makes the profession one worthy of any woman 
to follow. ” 

“ Is not that rather a sudden conversion?” smiled Ellen, 
archly, touched, in spite of herself, by his earnestness. 

“ It is not the less sincere. I think you must have seen. 
Miss Warde, how high you stand in my opinion — how I 
admire and revere you. In my eyes you could do nothing 
wrong. There is no one whose friendship would be so dear 
to me — since I must ask no more.” 

The last few words were almost inaudible, and Ellen 
guessed rather than heard their import, and a strange dis- 
quietude kept her silent. She did not know that Charlie 
had betrayed her confidence, and thought her anomalous 
position was the reason for what he had said. After all, 
what did it matter? She did not love him; her love had 
been given long ago to some one very different; and women 
do not change. But a feeling of embarrassment caused 


HER OWN SISTER. 


99 


her to keep her eyelids down, and the color came and went 
in waves upon her cheeks. 

He too was deeply moved, and felt it a relief when Mrs. 
Priolo entered to say that Mr. Bowyer would like to see 
the colonel before he left. Directly she was alone Ellen 
sunk upon a sofa and buried her face in her hands. She 
felt perturbed, she knew not why, and self-reproachful. 
In her eagerness to be frank with him she had said too 
much, and given a clew to her antecedents which might 
ultimately lead to her detection were he to follow it up. 
That he would not do so she knew; but conviction might 
be forced upon him some day; and was it fair to thrust 
upon his shoulders a burden which she herself felt so ter- 
ribly hard to bear? She knew that if he ever came to know 
all the terrible past, and shrunk from her in horror, it 
would be the last drop in the cup that was already so bitter 
to her lips. 

Though she loved elsewhere, and to her cost, yet she 
could have found the friendship of this other very sweet, 
only that it would be better to refuse it now than, having 
once enjoyed it, to feel it withdrawn from her forever. 

Presently she heard Colonel Severn’s footstep on the 
stairs, then passing along the hall. Some one opened the 
outside door for him, and closed it. He was gone — gone 
without a word of farewell! Was this the first fruits of her 
mad confession? 

Heart-sore and weary of the endless struggle to act for 
the best, Ellen burst into tears, weeping more violently 
from the very effort to stifle the sounds of her grief. 

Mrs. Priolo, who had herself escorted the visitor down- 
stairs, heard the girl’s sobs, and entered noiselessly. For a 
while she stood looking down at her pitilessly. How could 
such a wretch expect mercy? thought the woman who had 
never been tempted to commit a crime. 

“ Mr. Bowyer is waiting for you to say good-night,” she 
said at last, sharply. “ Are you coming?” 


100 


HER OWN SISTER. 


The sound of her voice acted as a stimulus to the girl's 
nerves. She dried her eyes at once, and got up, strangling 
the sob that rose rebelliously in her throat. 

“ I will go now. I did not know it was so late." 

“ Not with that face, I should hope — unless you wish to 
work on Mr. Bowyer's sympathy. For my part, I think 
such repining downright wicked, especially when one's as 
well off as you are now. It looks as if you had something 
on your mind." 

“ Perhaps I have," said Ellen, wearily, as she put away 
her work. 

“ Then take my advice, and don't show it so plainly. 
Curiosity is aroused already by your strange behavior; 
don't let it become an actual suspicion unless, of course " 
— with a sneer — 4 4 your past life will bear looking into." 

The girl's pale scared face was turned toward her tor- 
mentor in agonized suspense, but Mrs. Priolo deliberately 
avoided meeting her gaze. Not waiting for a reply, or 
giving the other time to get out of the room, she turned 
out the gas, and both were left in darkness. 

Was it Ellen's excited fancy, or did she really hear a 
whisper — three words muttered in a low malicious tone 
that the prevailing silence rendered clear and cruelly dis- 
tinct — “ Her own sister"? 


CHAPTER XIV. 

To open one's eyes on a pleasant sunny morning, when 
a balmy breeze is blowing and birds are singing in the trees, 
gives a curious sense of unreality when the preceding night 
has been a wakeful one and terrible with dire forebodings. 
All seems like a dream, and in the first reaction one is in- 
clined to underrate the dangers that may have been exag- 
gerated before. 

So it was with Ellen Warde. 

As she fled upstairs on the night before with those accus- 
ing words, “ Her own sister!" ringing in her ears, her only 


HER OWN SISTER. 


101 


chance of safety seemed to lie in immediate flight, leaving 
no trace behind; but, with the sun shining through her 
window, and signs and sounds of commonplace life all 
about, her views changed. 

She was aware of the housekeeper's eagerness to drive 
her away, and came to the conclusion that this was only a 
ruse to effect her purpose. She had seen the effect of her 
former chance allusion, and was harping on the same 
string. Ellen's natural courage reasserted itself. She 
would not allow herself to be so easily beaten; she must at 
least show a brave front, and find out, if possible, the en- 
emy's strength. Mrs. Priolo had declared war — well, she 
would find the challenge taken up. 

When the breakfast-bell rang, Ellen went down-stairs 
singing softly to herself, fastening a crimson rose into her 
belt as she entered the room, which relieved her from the 
necessity of encountering the housekeeper's first glance of 
startled surprise. 

“ Bless my heart, you're looking fine and gay this morn- 
ing! Have you heard good news?" was asked, bluntly. 

“No; but I have received some good advice, and mean 
to profit by it. As you say, it is of no use grieving for- 
ever," said Ellen, seating herself at table, and by her well- 
assumed unconcern utterly baffling the keen gaze that was 
directed toward her. 

“ Humph! It's well for those who can forget. There's 
some who have no right to be happy and contented like 
other folk." 

“ I hope you don't mean yourself, Mrs. Priolo. I should 
be sorry to think you were one of those. " 

The light insouciance of the retort goaded the elderly 
woman almost to madness. She crossed over to Ellen's side 
and bent down till their faces nearly touched. 

“ I'll tell you who is!" she cried, with spiteful emphasis; 
but, nefore another word could leave her lips, Mr. Bow* 
yer's entrance created a diversion. 


102 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ What is this?” he asked testily. “ Is breakfast not 
ready? The bell rang some time ago / 9 

Ellen jumped up lightly and drew his chair to the table. 
“ Mrs. Priolo was just going to tell me a story. She must 
reserve it for some other time/* she explained, with a pleas- 
ant smile; then, turning to the housekeeper, who was white 
with rage — “ If you will go and hurry them in the kitchen, 
I will make the tea for my uncle . 99 

A defiant emphasis was laid on the last word ; and Mrs. 
Priolo had no choice but to leave the room as requested. 

When she returned,. Ellen was retailing little bits of news 
that she had heard from Colonel Severn the night before, 
and Mr. Bowyer was talking more brightly than he had 
done for some time. 

<£ How bonny you look, child! You must come and read 
to me this morning. I have been afraid to ask you to do 
so lately, you have seemed so tired and ill . 99 

“ But now I am better, and mean to turn over a new 
leaf. All the effects of your lecture, Mrs. Priolo!” 

The housekeeper maintained a dogged silence. She 
dared not retort in Mr. Bowyer's presence; but a spiteful 
gleam in her eyes threatened retaliation at some future time. 
Ellen noted and understood; but, though her spirit quailed 
inwardly, she gave no sign of being daunted. 

Afterward, when at last the invalid fell asleep, soothed 
by "her clear mellifluous tones as she read aloud, and she 
was free from observation, the mask fell, and her face 
looked the more worn and troubled from the light-hearted- 
ness that she had assumed till then. With the strain re- 
moved, the tension of her nerves relaxed — she felt dispirited, 
hopeless. Discovery would, she felt sure, come sooner or 
later; still she might delay, though not able to avert it. 

Noiselessly she arose and went over to the writing-table. 
She had determined to beg Colonel Severn to say nothing 
of what she had so thoughtlessly admitted the night before. 
He would, she was confident, make no use of the knowledge 


HER OWN SISTER. 


103 


he had gained; blit in other hands the clew might be a dan- 
gerous one. 

“ Dear Colonel Severn/ , she wrote, glancing stealth- 
ily now and again in the direction of the sleeping man, lest 
he should awake and question her — “ What I said last night 
was said impulsively and without thought. It might in- 
jure me irretrievably were it to become known that I had 
been an actress. May I rely upon your kindness to keep it 
secret? You may probably imagine that the request arises 
from the false pride which I disclaimed last night; but it is 
not so indeed. I wish I could tell you all; but that is im- 
possible. I can only throw myself upon your generosity 
and trust you will think as well as you possibly can of 
“ Yours sincerely, 

“ Ellen Warde.” 

She slipped the note into an envelope and directed it, 
waiting for an opportunity to send it to its destination. 
This came sooner than she expected. A man arrived from 
the Abbey with a basket of flowers and fruit; and, inter- 
cepting him as he passed the sitting-room window, she 
emptied the contents herself and gave him the note to take 
back. Then quietly she returned to her place. 

Presently Mr. Bowyer awoke. 

“What were you and Mrs. Priolo sparring about this 
morning?” he asked, abruptly. 

Ellen hesitated a moment before replying, then resolved 
to win him to her side if possible. He had taken upon 
himself the office of her protector; it behooved her to be 
frank with him, although it was utterly foreign to her nat- 
ure to speak ill of any one in her absence. 

“ She is not very kind to me sometimes. I think she re- 
sents my being here . 99 

“ I thought as much,” put in the old man, quietly. 

“ And latterly she has been hinting at a knowledge of— 
you know what I mean.” 


104 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ Yes, I know, child; but surely she is only pretending 
that to alarm you! While we were abroad she knew noth- 
ing, I am certain; and it is impossible that she could have 
found out anything in this out of the way place. No, no; 
she is trying to frighten you — that is all. ” 

“ You really think so?*” — eagerly. 

“Iam nearly sure of it. Even if by any chance she did 
discover the truth, she would not dare to make use of it for 
fear of offending me. Besides, she is not a bad sort really, 
though I suspect, like most women, she has a keen eye to 
the main chance." 

“ Oh, if that is all/' cried Ellen, passionately, “ let her 
mind be set at rest! Tell her — st»ar to her if necessary — 
that you have no intention of givftg me anything beyond 
food and shelter while I can be of use to you. I want 
nothing more except — 99 

He looked at her searchingly. Like many who have 
money to leave behind them, he was always ready to ques- 
tion the motives of all about him; he could scarcely have 
trusted his own flesh and blood, so deeply rooted was his 
suspicion of poor human nature; and these two women who 
would ultimately possess his hard-won wealth were neither 
kith nor kin. 

“ Except what?” he asked, sharply. 

“ I should like you to love me," she answered wistfully. 
“ I am no more to you than a servant, unless you care to 
have me with you and like me to wait on you. Don’t you 
remember telling me once that I was like some one very 
dear?" 

“You are very like her,” softly. 

“ It was that that induced me to make my home with 
you. My first impulse was to relieve you of the burden of 
my presence directly I was safe from pursuit. Then you 
told me that I could best return your goodness by staying 
with you; and you were so ill just then, and alone, that I 
thought if you did not grudge the expense of keeping me I 


HER OWN SISTER. 


105 


would spare no pains to be to you what a child of your own 
might have been. If ” — her voice trembling a little — “ I 
have failed, has it been entirely my fault?” 

“ No,” he answered her, gravely; “ it has been mine — 
all mine. What I told you then was true. Your resem- 
blance to her made your presence a pleasure from the first; 
then I grew fond of you for your own sake. I love you 
still; but this illness has changed me sadly — I don’t seem 
always master of myself or responsible for my actions. 
When these nervous attacks come on, I am afraid of every 
one; the very air seems full of danger.” 

“ Surely you are not afraid of me?” 

“Not in my sane moments,” he answered, smiling. 
“ It would require some one with a more jaundiced vision 
than mine to read anything but truth and good faith in 
those big gray eyes of yours; and ” — taking her slim white 
hand in his — “ I should not consider this very formidable 
even were it raised against me. ” 

Instantaneously the same thought flashed through the 
minds of both— how, in spite of this, only a year before she 
had stood up to defend herself from suspicion of murder, 
though not actually arraigned upon the charge. 

Remorseful for having thus inadvertently recalled so 
painful a memory, in silent sympathy he pressed the hand 
he still held; but, shuddering convulsively, she withdrew it 
and walked over to the window, looking out until she had 
regained some command over her countenance. 

For nearly five minutes she stood so, her face pressed 
against the cool glass, wishing with all her heart that the past 
could be blotted out, or by some Lethean process forgotten. 

Then she turned and suggested to Mr. Bowyer that she 
should read to him again. He motioned her to a footstool 
near; and, when Mrs. Priolo came to the door a little later, 
and, gently opening it, looked in, she saw Ellen seated at 
his feet reading aloud in the low sweet voice which she 
could not but be aware was pleasanter to the ear than her 


106 


HER OWN SISTER. 


own strident tones, while on her short hair the old man's 
hand rested in affectionate caress. 

Withdrawing as silently as she had come, the housekeeper 
went down-stairs considerably crest-fallen. She had vent- 
ured too far, tried to effect too much at once. It had been 
an error of judgment, and, instead of ridding herself at a 
blow of the obnoxious intruder who stood between her and 
her hopes, she had only succeeded in driving her to stand 
at bay, and at the same time caused a better understanding 
between her and Mr. Bowyer. Yes, she had gone too far; 
but it would not do to retreat. Having betrayed her 
hatred of Ellen Warde, she could only now endeavor to 
give good reason for it; to deny it would be futile. 

For a while she could do nothing. It would be wiser to 
let the events of the day fade a little from the old man's 
feeble mind before attempting to convey new impressions, 
and in the meantime she would have ample leisure to 
evolve a plan. Ho feeling of compunction restrained her. 
In her own mind she considered it a righteous war against 
one who was without the pale of pity, who by her own act 
had rendered herself an outcast and caused the hand of 
every one to be against her. Had it not been that Mr. 
Bowyer had elected to shelter and defend her, the house- 
keeper would have denounced her at once, and there would 
have been no need of cunning. The old man was in his 
dotage and irresponsible; still, though she dared not go 
against him openly, she might by underhand means defeat 
him and gain her own ends. 

Ho answer came to Ellen's note that day. On the fol- 
lowing morning, about the time that a messenger usually 
came from the Abbey with the daily gift of flowers and 
fruit, she went down the road a little way until she met the 
man. 

“ Have you a letter for me?" she asked, stopping short. 

“Ho, miss " — touching his hat respectfully. “The 
colonel went to London yesterday. I never heard a word 


HER OWK SISTER. 


10 ? 


about it, or would have told you of it then ; but the butler 
said as how he’d send your letter on with some others that 
came this morning; so it will get to him all right.” 

“ Thank you; that will do nicely.” 

Stooping, she buried her face among the sweet-smelling 
flowers that lay in a bed of soft green moss. One magnifi- 
cent whfte lily raised its head above the rest, and Ellen 
took it in her hand. 

“ What a beauty!” she said, admiringly. 

“ Stewart says it's the biggest he has ever reared. The 
master saw it the other day when ’twasonly in bud, and he 
said, 4 You must send that to the Dower House — the young 
lady there is fond of flowers/ ” 

She had' been about to replace it in the basket; now she 
withdrew her hand. 

“ I will carry it myself,” she said, and motioned to him 
*to go on. 

Her cheeks were glowing and an unaccountable tremor 
was at her heart. She was glad he thought of her some- 
times, if only in so small a matter as the giving of a flower. 
The thought struck her, deepening the color already so 
high in her cheeks, that a woman might well prize the love 
of such a man— even his friendship was worth having. He 
was the sort of ideal hero she had dreamed of before that 
dark shadow fell upon her life, and before she gave her 
heart unsought, or at least unclaimed, to another. Even 
as it was she liked him well — so well that a cold feeling of 
disappointment, as at an actual loss, had crept over her 
when she heard of his departure, and she knew she would 
look anxiously for his return. While he was over at the 
Abbey she felt safer, less lonely, though they seldom met. 
Was even this poor comfort to be withdrawn? 

She had watched so eagerly for an answer to her note, 
wondering what he would say and how he would address 
her! Long before daylight she had awakened and awaited 
for the dawn, thinking the letter might come. And now 


108 


HER OWK SISTER. 


there was none, and he had gone. Was it likely he would 
hurry back when there was nothing in this quiet uninter- 
esting place to attract him, and the whole world was be- 
fore him to choose his residence? 

She sighed, and laid the lovely blossom softly against 
her cheek, finding the contact of the velvety petals cool 
and grateful to the touch. The next moment, whether 
startled by her own action or some sudden thought, per- 
haps only overpowered by its strong pervading perfume, 
she flung it from her, and, walking on rapidly, left it to 
wither on the ground. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A few mornings later, as Ellen came out of her bed- 
room, Mrs. Priolo emerged from hers also, and called her 
by name. • 

She was in a violet flannel dressing-gown, and capless, 
and her disordered gray hair gave her so unusual an ap- 
pearance that for the moment Ellen scarcely recognized 
the prim housekeeper who was ordinarily seen only in the 
stiffest and most conventional attire. Besides, as a rule, 
at this hour she was down-stairs and had got through most 
of her work, so as to be at liberty to remain with Mr. 
Bowyer after breakfast. 

“ What is the matter?” cried Ellen, in surprise. 

“ I've had a dreadful night. The rats never let me 
sleep a moment hardly. They're bad enough always, but 
last night they were beyond all bearing.” 

“ I have never been troubled by them at all,” said 
Ellen, adding, with a puzzled look, “ I have never heard 
you complain before. ' ' 

“ I'm not one to go about moaning and groaning every 
time anything annoys me; but I've come to the limit of 
my patience now. Something must be done to get rid of 
them. ” 


HER OWN SISTER. 


109 


“Are you coming down to breakfast?” asked Ellen, 
wondering at the housekeeper's diffuseness; for since their 
passage-at-arms a day or two before they had scarcely ex- 
changed a word. 

“ No, I'm too worn-out. I want you to tell Mr. Bowyer 
the reason why I could not come. I must have an hour's sleep 
before I dress. Jane brought me a cup of tea, which is all 
I want. You will see that Mr. Bowyer has all he requires? 
Mind the coffee is freshly ground, and don't forget the 
newspapers — " 

“ I shall be able to look after my uncle,'' interposed 
Ellen, haughtily, as she turned away. 

She took especial pains that everything should be as nice 
as, if not nicer than, usual that morning; but Mr. Bowyer 
came down in a cross humor, and was difficult to please. 
Like most invalids, he disliked a change from the usual 
routine, and resented anything that interfered with his 
comfort. The housekeeper had been with him so long, 
and never before had anything occurred to keep her from 
the morning meal. He fumed and fretted about it, and 
could talk of nothing else during the breakfast. 

“ We must find something to get rid of the pests!" he 
declared impatiently once or twice. 

“ I have never seen or heard one," observed Ellen. 

“ Last night I could scarcely sleep myself," he went on, 
not heeding her interruption — “ there were such noises in 
the next room. Of course it was rats. I wonder it did 
not strike me at the time." 

“ More likely you heard Mrs. Priolo moving about." 

“ It comes to the same thing. The rats disturbed her, 
and consequently she disturbed me.'' 

q6 I am very sorry you did not sleep well; and you need 
a good night's rest always. Shall I read to you after 
breakfast? You say that sends you to sleep. " 

He assented, and for nearly an hour she read aloud to 
him; but this morning her voice had lost its soporific influ- 


110 


HER OWN SISTER. 


ence, or else his nerves were in too irritable a state to be 
easily soothed. 

Then Mrs. Priolo came down, looking much as usual in 
spite of the air of invalidism that she had adopted, and the 
subject of the rats was resumed. 

“Pm sure I don’t know what is to be done/’ said Mr. 
Bowyer, hopelessly. 

“ A rat-trap is the only thing I can think of. That is a 
very slow way of getting rid of them; but what else can 
any one suggest?” 

Mrs. Priolo looked at Ellen as she spoke, and, wearied 
of the discussion, the girl answered somewhat impatiently— 

“ Why not lay down poison?” 

“ Is that practicable? What sort of poison is used?” 

“ Arsenic, I suppose ” — wondering a little at the house- 
keeper’s asking for information from her. 

“ I wonder whether it would be possible to get it?” 

“Why not?” said Mr. Bowyer. “I will write a note 
to the chemist at Greathaven, and you shall go in your- 
self.” 

“ That seems easily managed; and of course it is quite 
safe since Miss Warde recommends it. For my part, I 
don’t care for meddling with such a dangerous thing as 
poison; but then I’m an old fogy.” Then, changing her 
tone with the subject, she said, cheerily, “ What about 
the letters this morning? Were there any?” 

At the same moment the gate closed, and the postman 
came along the path. 

. There were two letters— -one for Mrs. Priolo and one for 
Ellen Warde. 

It was the first that had ever come to Ellen, but she felt 
no doubt whence it was, even if the large bold handwriting 
and the device of a London club on the thick square en- 
velope had not told her. Blushing violently, she took it 
from the man. 

“ Who is your correspondent, Ellen?” 


HEE OWN SISTEK. 


Ill 


“ I — I have not read it yet,” she answered, evasively: 
then, after a moment's hesitation, during which she was 
fingering it nervously, she left the room with the letter 
still unopened in her hand. 

Mr. Bo wye/ s gaze followed her inquisitively. 

“ Who can have written to her?" he asked Mrs. Priolo. 

“ It's either from the colonel or his son. The postmark 
was London, and they’re both there now, I hear.’’ 

44 What could they have to write about?’’ he persisted, 
with a restless curiosity that had become habitual to him 
of late. 

44 Young ladies will have their secrets, which it’s no 
good prying into,’’ laughed Mrs. Priolo. 44 Miss Warde is 
more inclined to make mysteries of nothing than most.’’ 

The invalid looked annoyed, whether at her remark or 
his niece’s uncommunicativeness she could not tell. Open- 
ing her own letter, she became apparently engrossed in its 
contents. From time to time ejaculations broke from her 
which were calculated to arouse Mr. Bowyer’s attention, 
and did not fail in their intent. 

44 Have you anything very interesting there?’’ he asked, 
at length. 

44 It’s a shocking story — it would only distress you to 
hear it, ” she said. 

But, when he still displayed a keen desire to know all 
about it, she told him with apparent reluctance. A wom- 
an she had known some years before had come to a violent 
end. She was a widow, and well-to-do; her husband had 
been a wholesale cheese-monger in a large way of business, 
and had left her all his money free of control to do with as 
she chose.’’ 

44 And of course she made ducks and drakes of it at 
once,” put in Mr. Bowyer, with a compassionate sneer. 

44 No, indeed she did not; a better woman of business I 
never wish to see. She actually increased her income after 
her husband’s death." 


112 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ A miser! With women it is always one extreme or 
the other. '' 

“ Nothing of the sort. It would have been better for 
her if she had been close. A more charitable soul never 
breathed; had it not been so, she would have been alive 
now/’ 

44 How was it then?” 

44 Well, it was this way. It was a practice of hers to 
visit the prisons and penitentiaries — and a deal of good is 
done in that way, I can well believe; but there is such a 
thing as going too far, even in the right direction, and to 
take a girl who had already at the age of nineteen been 
committed for extensive thefts and suspected of complicity 
in other worse crimes — to take such a one into her own 
house was nothing short of madness, I should say.” 

44 And — and what was the end of it?” 

The question was asked because some observation 
seemed to be expected, not because any doubt was in his 
mind as to the reply. Inwardly Mr. JBowyer felt a shrewd 
suspicion that this story was being told him to point a 
moral, though he had neither reason nor proof to give for 
his belief, and therefore could not say so. 

44 It only shows there's neither good nor gratitude to be 
got out of these wretches. It's just as if, when once 
they've begun to go down-hill, they can't even stop them- 
selves, let alone turn round and go up again. This girl 
was loaded with presents and treated like a daughter — 
nothing was spared in fact, for my friend hoped to prove 
by her example that these criminals could be reclaimed by 
care and kindness. Poor soul, she was a martyr to her 
faith! When the girl had been with her about a year, the 
poor lady was persuaded to make a will, leaving all her 
property to this nameless waif who had so effectually man- 
aged to worm herself into her good graces. She was fool- 
ish enough to tell the girl what she had done — " 


HER OWN SISTER. 


113 


An impressive pause, which Mr. Bowyer broke into by 
asking abruptly — 

44 Did you know this before to-day?” 

The housekeeper met his gaze without flinching. 

44 1 knew the beginning of it, of course; but the end is 
only told now in this ” — tapping lightly the letter in her 
hand. 

44 Go on with the story. ” 6 

44 It's a week ago since they found the poor woman mur- 
dered in her bed. So craftily was it managed that no sus- 
picion seemed to attach to the girl, and her guilt might 
never have been discovered had not her antecedents been 
known. However, it’s brought home to her now, and will 
be a warning, I hope, to others. ” 

Mr. Bowyer remained doggedly mute. Whether the 
story was true or not, he was sure that it had been told for 
his benefit, and naturally resented it. He was a man who 
liked to go his own way unquestioned, and, having once 
adopted a course, never deviated from it. 

This he thought Mrs. Priolo might have known, and 
felt angry with her — so angry that the doubt began to as- 
sail him whether the whole story was not invented on ac- 
count of her dislike and distrust of Ellen Warde. He would 
have given anything to ask to read the letter himself, but 
the request would have implied an insult he hesitated to 
inflict, while, even if what she had told him was true, there 
might be other things she would not care for him to see, so 
the refusal which he would almost certainly get would not 
necessarily convict her. 

44 What a happy thing it is,” Mrs. Priolo went on, 
44 that we none of us know the time and the manner of our 
death! How that poor woman, a week ago, felt satisfied 
— satisfied as you and I feel now — that she would die in 
her own bed of old age or ordinary illness. Certainly the 
last person she would have suspected of raising a hand 


114 


HER OWH SISTER. 


against her was the outcast she had taken to herself and 
treated as her own child. ” 

Against his will a creepy sensation very like fear was 
stealing over her hearer. Striving to fight against it, he 
lost his head, and said, excitedly — 

“ Why do you say all this to me? What have I to do 
with it?” 

Mrs. Priolo’s expression of innocent surprise was inimi- 
table as she raised her widely opened eyes to his face. 

“ It was you that insisted on my telling the story! You 
will do me the justice to remember that I hesitated, 
knowing that anything like that would be sure to shock 
you in your present weak state of health. Of course, if 
you wish to be treated as an invalid only, and not a re- 
sponsible person, at another time I will refuse to gratify 
your curiosity. ” 

“ I wish to be treated fairly and openly. ” 

“ Have I ever done otherwise/ ’ she asked, with dignity. 

44 You act according to your lights, I dare say; but 
women’s ways are not men’s ways. We attack an enemy 
face to face — we don’t stab him in the dark!” 

“ Why, really, Mr. Bowyer, I fail to understand you! 
Who is talking of enemies and stabbing?” — with an in- 
dulgent smile that drove him to a further indiscretion. 

He half raised himself from the chair, and, glaring at 
her fiercely, said, in a voice that he endeavored in vain to 
render calm and steady — 

“ Do you mean to say that you meant no reflection on 
my — on Ellen Warde — that what you told me was not in- 
tended to undermine my confidence in her?” 

Mrs. Priolo rose and pushed him back gently into his 
chair. 

“ My dear sir, you are overtired and upset, or you would 
not say such things. If it were not so, I should begin to 
conjecture — But there — it is all nonsense! What on 
earth could Miss Warde, your niece, have in common with 


IT Eli OWN SISTER. 


115 


a wretch rescued from a prison — a murderess? You have 
been talking wildly, and I must insist upon your resting 
now. No, no — don’t say anything more; I declare I will 
not listen. Lie back and close your eyes, or I won’t an- 
swer for the consequences. ” 

The old lawyer, shrewd as he had been considered in his 
profession, was now no match for the wily woman whose 
wit was opposed to his. Furious at his own maladroit- 
ness, he could but follow her suggestion and take refuge 
in silence as his only safety. But he felt his defeat bitter- 
ly, and it required all the housekeeper’s cleverness and 
tact to restore his self-esteem and win him back to good 
humor with herself. That she succeeded at all was a 
strong proof of the influence she was gaining over him day 
by day. 

While all this took place below, Ellen was kneeling be- 
side the open window of her room upstairs. 

The fresh autumn air swept in and lifted her short curls, 
cooling her hot face as she opened the letter that had come 
at last. Its first perusal disappointed her a little — without 
reason she confessed, with self - upbraiding — for why 
should she have expected more from him, or as much? It 
was a kindly letter, and a friendly one. Anything beyond 
would have been fruitless, unwelcome even, she told her- 
self, with a touch of hauteur; then, raising it from the 
ground, to which it had fluttered from her hand, she read 
it through again. 

“ My dear Miss Warde, — Your note was forwarded 
to me only this morning, and I hasten to assure you that 
you have nothing to fear from me. Anything you have 
ever told me I consider sacred, and will guard more jeal- 
ously than any secret of my own. 1 only wish I might 
take the whole burden on myself, and leave you free. 

“ A telegram from Charlie, reminding me that it was 
his birthday and begging me to spend it with him, took 


116 


HER OWN SISTER. 


me away quite unexpectedly. For the first time I had for- 
gotten it — and this his coming of age too! We are too 
new to the county to celebrate it in the usual way, as 1 
should have liked to do. A few 'days at most will see me 
back. Will you believe .that I am already anxious to ex- 
change the gayeties of town for the quietude of the Abbey 
and the privilege of an occasional visit to the Dower 
House? I should be glad if my boy could accompany me, 
but I feel it is too much to ask of him yet. I hope that 
Mr. BowyeUs health is improving, and that you yourself 
are well. Until we meet, which will be very soon, believe 
me. Your sincere friend, 

“ George Severn. 

“P.S. — I have become quite a frequenter of theaters, 
which for certain reasons I view now with different eyes. 
If anything, I have gone to an opposite extreme, and am 
inclined to fancy that every woman who has trod the stage: 
is what I know one to be. " 

This time she read between the lines, and was conscious 
of an under-current of tenderness that sent the blood cours- 
ing through her veins and made her eyelids droop, though 
none could see what her eyes might have betrayed. 

Something told her that he cared for her; and the 
knowledge caused her a keen delight, even if no good 
might ever come of it — only sorrow. She scarcely under- 
stood herself, and was afraid to analyze the new sensations 
that were rising in her heart and filling it to the exclusion 
of all else; but this she knew — the old idol which in her 
inexperienced girlhood she had erected was displaced, while 
another, indistinct and shadowy as yet, was slowly rising 
in its stead and taking the form, the features, the individu- 
ality of George Severn. In his letter he had signed him- 
self only her friend; but she felt with a subtle passionate 
pleasure that made her oblivious of the barrier which ex- 
isted that he was gradually becoming something more. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


117 


Friendship was a pleasant thing and sweet; but love was 
far, far sweeter. She was a mere child in the ways of the 
world when — unwisely — she gave away her heart unasked, 
though not entirely unsought. Now she was a woman, 
and with a woman's unerring intuition knew tjiat the man 
whose letter was in her hand — now pressed closely to her 
bosom, now to her lips — was her lover, and beloved. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

“Here's a letter from Severn, Ellen; he's back, and 
coming to see us this afternoon. Some Australian — a Mr. 
Wray, I read it — is with him; and he wants to bring him 
too, if I am well enough to receive a stranger. " 

“ And are you well enough?" asked the girl, bending 
over the flowers she was arranging to hide what she knew 
was written on her face in scarlet. 

“ I am about the same as usual; but a talk with some 
one from the old country will never harm me. It will be 
like a breath of Australian air, keen but exhilarating — not 
like this cold dampness that is beginning now." 

“ I wish you would go back to Australia." 

“ Why? Would you go too?" 

“ That is impossible, you know; and, oh " — with a 
slight shiver — “I have no desire to return! With you it 
is different — you are homesick, and the climate suited 
you; it pains me terribly to know that you are staying 
here only on my account." 

“ I was ill there too; besides, after all, this is my native 
country. " 

She looked at him sorrowfully, but said no more, hav- 
ing urged it on him so often in vain. Then, taking the 
flowers from the bowl where she had placed them, she put 
them in again — this time more carefully, for some one 
would be there to see. 

The little sitting-room looked its best when Mr. Bowyer 


118 


HER OWN SISTER. 


entered about four o’clock, having been to his room to lie 
down for an hour or so, the better to enjoy the treat in 
store for him. It had been the subject of his conversation 
all day. A visit from Severn was always welcome, and 
this time doubly so, since he was bringing with him some 
one who could talk to him of the old well-known places 
and habits which custom had made dear. 

He glanced round approvingly. 

“ How cozy it is; and a little fire is very acceptable, 
though the month is October!' It is getting colder every 
day. It is wonderful how luxuriant the flowers are still. 
Where did you get all these?” 

“ A basket came from the Abbey as usual, and some are 
from our own garden.” 

“ And you actually found it in your heart to pick them!” 

He spoke rallyingly, for he knew her love for flowers, 
and that she never willingly gathered one. It struck him 
suddenly that perhaps young Severn was coming with his 
father, and it was in his honor that she had made these 
preparations. His gaze wandered to herself. 

She was looking very bright, very beautiful, he thought. 
Some inward excitement had brought a color to her cheeks 
and a wondrous light into her eyes. Her lips were parted 
in anticipation, her movements were full of elasticity as 
she flitted hither and thither, touching first one thing, then 
another, to make them show to the best advantage; but 
the gown she was wearing was certainly not a gala one. 
It was the same that she wore every day— a black velveteen 
with crape upon it, grown brown and rusty-looking from 
wear. 

‘‘Have you no nicer frock?” he asked her. “Don’t 
you think you might cease to wear such deep mourning? 
It will excite remark.” 

“ I shall never wear anything but black, I think,” she 
answered, gravely; then, conscious of the depressing effect 
of her speech, she took some Marechal ISTiel buds from a 


HER OWN SISTER. 


119 


vase and pinned them in the lace at her throat. “ Does 
that look better?” 

Mr. Bowyer muttered something unintelligible which 
she guessed to be complimentary from its tone; and a 
mirror that hung opposite set any doubt she might still 
have had at rest. It reflected the slim figure in its grace- 
ful poise, the fair face that the dark dingy garb made to 
seem fairer still, the bright hair which was of even a 
deeper, more golden yellow than that of the roses she 
wore. A richer and brighter gown might have seemed 
more appropriate to but could not have enhanced her 
beauty. 

Voices were heard outside; the next moment Colonel 
Severn entered; and, having greeted Mr. Bowyer warmly, 
and Ellen with an involuntary cmpressement of which she 
could not but be conscious, he turned to indicate his friend. 

“ Mr. Weare — a countryman of yours,” he said. 

A momentary pause, during which Mr. Bowyer was 
wondering where he had seen before the dark good-looking 
face and tall slight figure of the young man introduced. 

“We met about a year ago, when I was on my way back 
from India,” continued Colonel Severn ; “and I was 
lucky enough to come across him again while up in town 
this time. ” 

The stranger interposed. 

“ I think the luck was all on my side,” he said, in a 
voice that, pleasant as it was, struck two of the hearers 
with dismay. To Mr. Bowyer it was perfectly familiar, 
though he could not remember where he had heard it last. 
“ The colonel saved me from drowning when coming 
home; and really I believe he has saved me from some- 
thing nearly as bad now. London, to a stranger who 
knows none of the celebrities or institutions, is one of the 
dreariest places in the world.” 

“ I agree with you, I think,” remarked the old lawyer; 
“ or perhaps it is the sociability of colonial society that 


120 


HER OWN SISTER. 


makes life in England strange at first. Find a chair for 
Mr. Weare, colonel, and one for yourself. I am an in- 
valid still, you see.” 

“Iam sorry for that — I had hoped to find you getting 
stronger and acclimatized,” said Colonel Severn, placing a 
chair for his friend. 

“ It is a matter of climate, I suppose; but don't let us 
talk of my ailments — the subject is getting uninteresting, 
even to me, who possess more than my share of invalid's 
egotism. Tell me how the colonel came to save your life, 
Mr. Weare?” 

“ Well, this is how it came about. 1 happened to be on 
the P. and 0. steamer in which he was coming to Eng- 
land. I had been seriously ill, and change of air and new 
associations had been recommended; but I am a miserable 
sailor, and for some days was the worse rather than the 
better for my voyage. The weather was very rough, but 
I positively could not stay below, and, in spite of remon- 
strances, spent most of my time on deck clinging to what- 
ever I could. One night the cold was so intense that my 
fingers lost all power; a big sea washed over us, and — I 
knew no more till I found myself, drenched through and 
fearfully weak, in my cabin. The wave must have 
knocked me senseless, for until I was told I did not even 
know that I had been overboard, and saved only by Colonel 
Severn's pluck and skill.” 

“ Nonsense, man! Any one would have done the same, 
only I chanced to be the nearest, and saw what had hap- 
pened first.” 

“ So you say; but I don't believe another soul on board 
would have ventured into that raging sea on the chance of 
saving a stranger's life. " 

“ Have you never heard,” asked Mr. Bowyer, “ that it 
is a dangerous thing to rescue a man from drowning? 
There is a -superstitions idea that the act recoils on yourself, 
and is your own undoing.” 


HER OWN SISTER. 121 

“ Oh, if we stayed to listen to the teachings of supersti- 
tion!” smiled Colonel Severn. 

“ Perhaps it might be well if we did sometimes,” re- 
turned Mr. Bowyer. “ How often it seems as though a 
benefit conferred engendered a feeling of ill-will rather 
than gratitude! And is it not the one whom we prefer 
above all others, or have saved from some disaster, who 
has the power — and often the inclination — to hurt us 
most?” 

“ I hope it is not so. Nay, I am sure it can not be,” 
answered the young man warmly. 

Mr. Bowyer had spoken bitterly, yet even as the words 
fell from his lips he knew that the thoughts they clothed 
emanated from Mrs. Priolo’s brain — not his own. He 
dared not glance in Ellen’s direction, lest he should meet 
her reproachful gaze. 

When the stranger had first spoken, Ellen had shrunk 
back into the shadow of a dark curtain, clasping its heavy 
folds convulsively for support. Her brain was in a whirl 
— her heart beat so violently that it hurt her; but the pain 
was not so great that it could not be increased. Each 
word of Mr. Bowyer’s last speech stabbed her like the 
sharp incision of a knife; yet her very suffering gave her 
momentary strength. 

Wearily she crept away, her exit unnoticed by any one 
save George Severn, who had watched her anxiously from 
the first, wondering what it was that had caused her such 
evident distress. The eyes of love are keen; and Severn 
had ceased to deceive himself in that respect some time 
back. He knew why he was so eager to serve her, why he 
would gladly throw his life and fortune away if by so doing 
he could save her from any pain. 

“ I wonder if it is true,” mused Mr. Bowyer, <c that a 
drowning man sees every action of his life pass before him? 
It must add to the horror of the death if that is true.” 


122 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ You are taking it for granted that only one’s evil 
deeds rise before one,” said Severn. 

Mr. Bowyer still looked questioningly at the young man 
who had passed through the experience. He answered 
now gravely — 

“ You forget I was senseless while in the water, and so 
was spared that at least. ” 

“ Yes; 1 suppose few of us are so free from remorse as 
to face such a panorama unmoved. ” 

“None, I should say,” put in Mr. Weare quickly. 
“ Has it never struck you what whited sepulchers we all 
are — some more, some less? When one comes to consider 
the number of criminal mysteries that remain unraveled, 
it is only to be supposed that we have met some of the 
guilty ones in friendly converse. The pretty girl I took in 
to dinner a few nights ago may be a murderess, for all I 
know; and that young fellow, your son’s friend, who im- 
pressed you so favorably that same evening, colonel, may 
be an undetected thief or forger.” 

“ Bather unlikely, all the same,” smiled Severn. 

“ I am suggesting possibilities rather than probabilities, 
I admit; but it is my firm conviction that in every one of 
us the capacity for crime is lying dormant. The develop- 
ment is a mere matter of temptation, opportunity, and 
chance.” 

“ You are a fatalist,” was the half-contemptuous reply. 

George Severn thought his friend was talking wildly. 
Intensely truthful himself and frank in all his dealings, a 
more single-minded man than Colonel Severn could not 
exist. Though not denying the reality of crime in the ab- 
stract, it was very difficult to make him believe in the vice 
of any one in particular. 

Mr.* Bowyer, for whom the terrible had always an attrac- 
tion, was deeply interested, and did not attempt to disguise 
the fact. 

“Do you mean,” he said, eagerly, “ that you nave 


HER OWN SISTER. 


123 


known a case in which such a person as you describe has 
mixed freely with his fellow-beings unsuspected ?” 

“ I have such a case in my mind now. '* 

“ But then immunity for a time does not mean immu- 
nity forever. ” 

“ Of course not. My argument is that some, not all, 
escape detection.” 

“It is dreadful to contemplate!”— shuddering. “Let 
us change the subject to one less grewsome. Ellen, will 
•you give us some tea and call for lights?” 

“Miss Warde left the room a few minutes ago,” an- 
swered Colonel Severn. “ Shall I ring the bell?” 

“ Thank you. And now, Mr. Weare, let us talk about 
Australia for a time. What a country it is! I wonder 
why we English still cling to home when nearly every 
other climate is better than our own?” 

“A sort of obstinacy, I -suppose; or it may be one is 
freer and more independent in England, and can go one's 
own way unquestioned.” 

“ You mean one can be lost in a crowd.” 

“ I think the crowd is an advantage in itself.” 

“ From what part of Australia do you come?” asked 
Mr. Bowyer abruptly, and received the brief reply — 

“ Sydney.” 

In a moment it flashed across the old man's mind where 
he had seen his visitor before. He was none other than 
that Gerald Weare whose bride had been taken from him 
in so horrible a fashion a month before his wedding-day, 
and for whose sake Elaine Warrington was supposed to 
have committed a crime. 

He looked round nervously, then, remembering that 
Ellen had left the room, half rose with the intention of 
following her and putting her on her guard, if indeed she 
had not already taken fright. 

At the same moment a shrill cry was heard outside, and 
Mrs. Prioio threw open the door. 


124 


HER OWN SISTER. 


4 4 Here's Miss Ellen lying on the ground in a dead 
faint!" she cried. 44 Whatever can have happened?" 

It was Severn who made the first move to cross over to 
her side. She had fallen senseless across the door-way. 
He knelt down and raised her head on to his arm. Mr. 
Bowyer appeared helpless with dismay, but Gerald Weare 
came near and looked down at her with an expression of 
somewhat stereotyped pity. 

44 Have you no restoratives?" asked Severn, sharply, of * 
the housekeeper. 

Before she could reply, an involuntary exclamation from 
the lips of the stranger startled them both. 

It was only the ejaculation of a name, as though he had 
suddenly recognized the senseless woman at his feet; but 
it was not the name by which either of them had known 
her. 

Mr. Bowyer jumped up from his seat as though electri- 
fied, and dragged himself slowly to the scene of action, not 
knowing what to do for the best. Mrs. Priolo retained 
possession of all her faculties. 

44 You've known the poor young lady before," she ob- 
served to Mr. Weare, in the bland tones which Colonel 
Severn had lately learned to distrust. 44 Don't you think 
we had better place her on the sofa? And then I'll run 
and get some brandy and the sal-volatile from Mr. Bow- 
yer 's room." 

But Mr. Bowyer interfered. He was determined that 
Ellen should not return to consciousness before them all, 
and perhaps betray herself in her first bewilderment. 
Violently agitated as he was, he managed to express clearly 
his desire that the girl should be taken to her own room at 
once. 

Obediently the colonel gathered her in his arms and 
bore her up the narrow stairs, wishing the distance greater 
still in spite of her dead-weight — indeed the wild elation. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


125 


that filled him at the close contact precluded all idea of 
fatigue. 

She was lying across his breast, her soft golden curls 
sometimes brushing his cheek as he bent over her solicit- 
ously, and he could feel the faint beating of her heart. 
Whatever of sorrow or disappointment the future held in 
store, it would always possess for him the consolation of 
memory. Like the page who once, and only once, kissed 
the red lips of Schon Rohtraut, he forgot, in the rapture 
of the moment, the barren years that stretched before him. 
Though a secret in her life prevented her ever marrying, 
though she loved some one else, and though, even if these 
difficulties could be surmounted, there would still be the 
impossibility of giving to his son a step-mother where he 
fain would have found a wife, still the present moment was 
his own — nothing could rob him of the recollection of this 
wild delight. 

The measured tread of Mrs. Priolo as she followed him 
upstairs recalled him in some degree to himself. She had 
lingered behind a moment to bestow a searching glance on 
this visitor whose coming had created such a disturbance. 
For a moment only was she puzzled; then, remembering 
the sketch in Ellen's portfolio, she knew that by some 
strange chance — a fatality it might be called — the man for 
whom she had so deeply sinned had once more crossed the 
path of the fugitive from j ustice. 

How would this affect her plans? Would he denounce 
her at once, or would faint-hearted compassion cause him 
to forego the revenge to which he was entitled? Time 
would show; but the housekeeper felt pretty sure that in 
the end her cause, the cause of might and right, would tri- 
umph, and with tolerable complacence set about restoring 
to Ellen Warde the consciousness of which for a time she 
had been mercifully deprived. 


126 


HER OWN SISTER. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Returned to the Abbey, George Severn and his guest, 
after dinner, smoked their cigars in almost absolute si- 
lence, each being too absorbed in his own thoughts to no- 
tice the abstraction of the other. Of the two the colonel 
seemed the more perturbed. He was wondering where and 
how Miss Warde and Mr. Weare had known each other, 
and what would be the result of their chance meeting. 
Another thing puzzled him. It was certainly not a sur- 
name that had escaped Wearers lips on first recognition, 
but it also was not “ Ellen; ” it had a longer, softer 
sound. He thought it must have been “ Elaine.” 

* ‘ Elaine the fair, Elaine the lovable — 

Elaine, the lily-maid of Astolat,” 

he quoted softly to himself. The name suited her so well, 
with her pale sweet face and secret sorrow; but what right 
had this young fellow to call her by it: 

The subject of that afternoon’s incident was not broached 
until Mr. Weare said, as they stood up to say good-night — 

“ By the bye, what was the name of the old gentleman 
we visited to-day?” 

“ Mr. Bowyer. He practised as a lawyer in Australia, I 
believe.” 

“ And — and the young lady?” 

“ She is Miss Ellen Warde, his niece.” 

“ Have they been here any time?” 

4 ‘ About six months. Good-night,” said the colonel, 
curtly, closing the conversation. 

He had no wish to give further information about Ellen 
Warde which might or might not be used to her disad- 
vantage; and yet it would be suspicious and not what she 
herself would most probably desire were he to withhold 
facts which any inhabitant of the village could supply. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


127 


The next morning Colonel Severn looked older and more 
sallow than usual, feeling unrefreshed after a sleepless 
night. He found his visitor down before him, and pacing 
the terrace in front of the house, apparently having passed 
as restless a night as the colonel himself. However, a little 
color came into Mr. Wearers cheeks, and he forced an ex- 
pression of interest into his haggard eyes when he saw he 
was no longer alone, and immediately began, in a discon- 
nected, incoherent manner utterly unlike his ordinary lan- 
guid indifference, to discuss the laying-out of the garden. 

They were in the middle of a conversation which they 
endeavored in vain to render animated when the under- 
gardener returned with his empty basket from the Dower 
House, 

Colonel Severn's quick sight immediately detected a let- 
ter in the man's hand — indeed he had half expected that 
Ellen would write to him that day to claim his promised 
aid. He made a hasty movement forward, and had 
snatched it impatiently before the man had time to explain 
that it was not for him, but Mr. Weare. Relinquishing it 
at once, he still could not but see that the direction was in 
Ellen's handwriting, and a sharp pang of jealousy made 
him unable to do more than stammer out an apology. Then 
he turned abruptly on his heel and went in-doors. 

Gerald Weare however showed no elation — indeed the 
anxious expression on his face became intensified as he 
broke the seal and read the letter. When he came to the 
end of it, he tore the paper into shreds, and followed his 
host into the house. 

No allusion was made to the letter during breakfast; 
and when the meal was over Colonel Severn asked his com- 
panion what he would like to do. 

“ Not that I have many amusements to offer you," he 
added, ruefully; “ but we might ride or drive into Great- 
haven, or knock over a few rabbits and hares, if you care 
to walk with your gun. " 


128 


HER OWN SISTER. 


44 Would you mind,” asked Gerald Weare, deprecatingly, 
44 if I went somewhere on my own account this morning?. 
There is something I ought to do — something that has 
turned up rather unexpectedly, in fact.” 

“My dear fellow, don't explain,” interrupted the 
colonel, hastily; 44 I wish you to do exactly as you please — 
exactly as you would do if you were in your own house. 
We shall meet at luncheon, I dare say.” 

He helped himself to a cigar, and pushed the box toward 
his guest; but it remained unnoticed for awhile. Gerald 
Weare was deep in thought, from which he aroused himself 
only to remember how strange his conduct must appear in 
the colonel's eyes. 

44 It is more than good of you to let me come and go un- 
questioned like this!” he exclaimed. 44 It is hospitality in 
its truest and widest sense. The fact is, Miss Warde and 
I are not strangers; we have met before, and — ” 

44 And you naturally wish to see her again?” 

44 Yes — that is just it,” he answered, availing himself of 
the suggestion. 44 1 will walk over there now, if you will 
excuse me.” 

He rose and, with a nod and smile of farewell, left the 
room. George Severn remained alone, moodily smoking. 
He understood at last. This was the man Elaine loved — 
he called her 44 Elaine ” in his thoughts already— the name 
suited her so well, it became familiar at once— it never 
entered his head to doubt that her love was returned; at 
any time he would have scouted the idea that it was possi- 
ble she should cherish an unrequited passion. This was 
the reason why she had not appealed to him, why she 
would never need his aid again. There was some one now 
upon whom it was natural she should lean — some one 
younger and better-looking and more suited to her in every 
way; but would he — could he ever love her half so well? 

With a half-smothered groan Severn rose and flung away 
the cigar he had already suffered to die out. Maddened by 


HER OWN SISTER. 


129 


the thought that already probably they were together, and 
all the misery of the days duriug which they had been sep- 
arated forgotten in the blissful present, he snatched up his 
hat and went out, with no destination in view, only with 
the settled intention of avoiding the neighborhood of the 
Dower House. 

He walked on rapidly, his eyes fixed upon the ground, 
scarcely knowing in which direction he was going, when 
suddenly, passing through a narrow lane, he stumbled, 
and, instinctively looking up to see whither he was walk- 
ing, he saw a little way in front of him the flutter of a 
petticoat. A second glance showed him that the woman 
was Mrs. Priolo; and something in her action struck him 
as so peculiar that he stood still and watched her. 

She was bent nearly double, creeping on slowly in the 
shelter of a hedge. As it was not to be supposed she was 
stalking any game, the only conclusion he could come to 
was that she was playing the spy. But on whom? 

In the center of a large meadow full of grazing cattle, 
under the shadow of an old oak, stood Ellen Warde and 
Mr. "Weare* There was nothing lover-like in their atti- 
tude, he could see; but they were talking earnestly, and 
evidently of something they did not wish to be overheard. 
Was the housekeeper trying to discover their secret? 
Quickly yet quietly he walked on, and laid his hand firmly 
on her shoulder. 

“ What are you doing here?” 

There was a suppressed scream as the woman, rising 
from her bent position, twisted her neck round to see who 
was her assailant. When she found it was the colonel, her 
face cleared a little. What she had been watching so in- 
tently would surely be no pleasant sight to him. 

“ Sweethearting,” she whispered, meaningly. “They 
have made rapid strides in their acquaintance, if they met 
for the first time yesterday. ” 

“ Whether they have known each other before or not is 

5 


130 


HER OWN SISTER. 


no business of yours !” declared the colonel, sternly. “ You 
will come with me to the Dower House at once. I intend 
to ask Mr. Bowver if he allows his housekeeper to act the 
spy upon his niece.” 

“ She’s no more his niece than I am! She's—” 

But her communicativeness was stopped at once by a 
gesture, and Severn’s uplifted hand pointed out the way 
that she was to take. 

“ Very well, I’m ready enough to go if you like; but are 
you sure ”■ — maliciously — <e you’re doing her a good turn? 
I don’t want to make mischief; but, if I’m forced to 
speak, I’ll say out all I know.” 

An expression of doubt on her hearer’s face encouraged 
her to proceed. 

“ Why, you don’t think,” she went on, boldly, “ that 
Mr. Bowyer would keep her another moment in his house 
if he heard all I could tell?” 

“I think you are a very wicked woman!” exclaimed 
Severn. 

s< What — for watching those two just now? Why, all 
women are interested in a bit of love-making; curiosity is 
no sin! Miss Warde and I are good friends enough if you 
will only leave us alone.” 

Severn bit his lip and tugged at his dark mustache in 
deep perplexity. She might be speaking the truth — it 
might injure Ellen were he to insist upon bringing this be- 
fore Mr. Bowyer; being so utterly in the dark, it was al- 
most impossible for him to act without the fear of acting 
wrongly, and yet it went against the grain to let this schem- 
ing wretch go unpunished. 

“ After all, they’re doing no harm,” went on Mrs. Pri- 
olo, who, having recovered her self-possession, could see 
that she had the advantage now, and thought she might as 
well be revenged for the fright he had given her. She’s 
fond of him, no doubt, for she has kept some flowers he 
gave her years ago, and has painted a picture of him too. ” 


HER OWN SISTER. 


131 


“Silence, woman! Go!” thundered out the colonel; 
then, as, cowed by his auger, she turned obediently and 
went, he too walked away in the opposite direction, smiling 
bitterly to himself. 

What changes love had worked in him! He, the equa- 
ble self-contained man, had actually become melodramatic 
in his wrath; even in his young days the blood had not 
flowed so tempestuously through his veins — nay, he was in- 
clined to think that this was his real youth now, or at least 
the St. Martin's summer of his life. Never before had his 
pulses beaten so madly as they had lately at sight of Ellen 
Warde — indeed sometimes his feelings, which once had 
been perfectly under control, overmastered him, as in the 
present instance. 

He was half blinded now with passion as he strode along, 
and a jealous fancy pictured the love-scene that was being 
enacted even then. Yet a half hope that reason could not 
stifle lay deeply hidden in his heart that so great a love as his 
was not born and developed without a purpose; and this 
saved him from utter despair. It was only the beginning 
of the drama, after all; he must possess his soul in patience 
to the end. 

Would it have comforted him could he have been an un- 
observed spectator of what took place at the meeting which 
circumstances had prevented from being so secret as had 
been intended? 

Elaine had arrived first, and stood leaning against the 
gnarled trunk of the old oak, waiting for the other. She 
was as white as a sheet and trembling in every limb when 
at last Gerald Weare arrived. Nervously she held out her 
hand. The action was mechanical and the outcome of cus- 
tom; but she wished she had not made the movement 
when he stopped, as though anxious to keep her at a dis- 
tance. 

“You won't even shake hands with me?” she cried, ex- 
citedly. 


132 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ I would rather not ” — in a cold, hard voice. He was 
almost as agitated as she, but managed to maintain a sem- 
blance of composure. “ It would be merely an outward 
ceremony, and I — I have a great horror of pretense,” he 
said, after a slight pause. “ To neither of us can this un- 
expected meeting be anything but painful . 99 

i ‘It is very strange that the whole world is not big 
enough to hide in 99 — dreamily. 

“ What made you choose this place?” asked he. 

“ It was Mr. Bowyer’s idea. He said that I should be 
safer in an English village than traveling about and meet- 
ing different people every day.” 

“ He was right — quite right. It was the merest chance 
— or would you call it destiny? — that brought me here . 99 

66 You won’t betray me?” — eagerly. 

“ I? Ho. Ho you think me such a cur? Heaven 
knows I have no desire to revive the past — I only want to 
forget! Ho you know” — in awed low tones — “ when I 
saw you lying there senseless in that dimly lighted passage, 
I thought for a moment you were Ada.” 

“ Risen from the dead?” 

“ Yes, risen from the dead to comfort and console me — 
the Ada who loved me, telling me so in artless, childish 
fashion every hour; not the Ada who loved another, and 
was marrying me only for my money. ” 

A low cry escaped the girl’s pale lips; she sprung for- 
ward and caught hold of his arm. 

“ You know all that? Who told you?” 

“ I discovered it for myself. You may be sure no one 
else had the common honesty to open my eyes . 99 

“ But when — when — and how?” 

“ What does it matter?” he asked, roughly shaking off 
her hand. “ Soon enough to prevent my breaking my 
heart when — when she died. ” 

Elaine shuddered. The subject was too terrible a one 
to be pursued. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


133 


“ I begged her so often to be true to herself and you!” 
she whispered at last. 

He stood over her and looked down straight into her eyes. 

“ Do you know they used to tell me that if — if I had not 
sought Ada I might have won Elaine? I wonder if that 
was truer” 

White and silent, she returned his gaze as though spell- 
bound, as though uncertain herself whether it had been so 
or not, and trying to read what was in his face. 

He laughed mirthlessly, and turned away his head so 
that he saw only the acres and acres of green fields that 
spread before him and the calm blue sky that stretched 
above. Ear away in the dim perspective rose the spire of 
the church at GJ-reathaven and the tall chimneys with their 
columns of dark smoke. 

“If we could only see into the future, how differently 
we should shape our lives!” he said, presently, tossing his 
head and pushing back his mustache from his lips, a gest- 
ure she remembered in old times, when every act of his 
was noted by her and admired. 

“ Perhaps it is better as it is,” she suggested, timidly. 

“ Better as it is? How can you say so? What could be 
worse than the dark tragedy which has spoiled our lives? 
And I might have won happiness with you. Ah, if we had 
only known! And Ada might have been alive and happy, 
too, poor child!” 

“ Oh, hush!” she cried, in agony; and, leaning wearily 
against the tree, she sobbed aloud. 

“ Does it hurt you so? How strange! To me the pain 
is deadened, or at least I have grown accustomed to it — I 
believe one could grow accustomed to any horrible thought 
by not avoiding it.” 

“ You* forget,” she said, in a harsh, strained voice, “ it 
is different for me. I was suspected of — of—” She could 
not finish her sentence; though no one was within hearing, 
she dared not put the terrible ghastly fact into words. 


134 


HER OWN SISTER. 


44 But you escaped/ * he remarked, understanding what 
she meant. 

44 Yes, I escaped from prison, from trial, perhaps from 
death; but, oh, in thought I suffer all still, and shall 
until — ” 

This time he did not attempt to complete her sentence or 
answer it. The whole thing was too sad, too terrible to 
discuss. The end seemed far away, if indeed there could 
ever be an end. He thought there was only one solution 
to the problem — death. 

44 Why did you ask me to come here?” he inquired, at 
length. 

44 Because I wanted to beg your silence. An incautious 
word from you might betray me; and I have an enemy 
here who is on the watch to make use of anything against 
me.” 

44 Hot the colonel?” 

A deep blush suffused her cheeks, and she shook her 
head. Ever since she had been face to face with her old 
idol she had been realizing more clearly every moment 
that he had indeed fallen and never could be replaced in 
his old high position. His faults were so plainly visible to 
her now — his nervous womanish way, the selfishness of 
-which she had always realized, but which seemed more 
glaring in contrast with the generosity and thoughtfulness 
of her other lover. Gerald Weare had never spared her — 
not when he had led her to believe nearly two years before 
that she and not Ada was the woman he loved; not now, 
when he talked so lightly of things which he knew must 
touch her to the quick. But, blinded though he had 
always been by conceit and love of self, he could not fail 
to see the change in her expression. 

44 1 see it is not he,” he said, bitterly. 44 Have I fallen 
on a love-story unawares?” Though he had never loved 
her, it hurt his vanity to think that she should have ceased 


HER OWN SISTER. 


135 


to care for him, and he felt compelled to make her suffer 
in return. 

She flashed an indignant contemptuous glance at him, 
and then replied with sorrowful dignity that touched his 
shallow sympathy at once — 

“ There is no question of such a thing now, nor ever. 
I shall live and die alone.” 

“ Child, don’t look so despairing! You are safe now; 
and, if ever you are in danger again, appeal to me. There 
is something I know about that fatal night — something 
important which I believe would help you, perhaps clear 
you altogether;” then, meeting her eager, curious gaze, 
he added, impressively, “ Remember only you and I as yet 
know of the existence of that other, presumably a jealous 
lover. ” 

“ You want to transfer suspicion to him?” — sharply. 

“ I want to remove it from you. There is no body of 
men so open to conviction, so easily hoodwinked, as an 
impaneled jury. I wonder how they reconcile to their 
consciences all the mistakes they make. ” Taking out a 
little pocket-book, he wrote a few words on a blank leaf, 
tore it out, and gave it to her. “ There are the name and 
address of my bankers; anything directed there will always 
find me.” 

She thanked him quietly. 

‘ 4 It is time I went back,” she said; “ Mr. Bowyer always 
dines in the middle of the day, and will wonder if I am 
late.” 

tc Then we part again. This will be the last time, I 
think. I shall leave here at once — by this afternoon’s 
train if possible — and I don’t imagine, Elaine, our paths 
will ever cross in the future.” 

“ I hope not,” was in her heart, but nothing passed her 
lips. 

He stood for a moment pushing back his dark mustache 


136 


HER OWN SISTER. 


and staring at her curiously; then, muttering a somewhat 
gruff farewell, he turned and walked away rapidly. 

Ellen sighed wearily, and went in the other direction. 
She had known before that of which this interview had 
convinced her; still the certainty that the cause of so much 
love and sorrow was utterly unworthy struck her with a 
new and a keen pain. She had suffered so deeply on his 
account — more deeply than any one could ever know — and 
all her devotion was wasted, thrown away. It might have 
been so different! 

It still wanted a few minutes to the dinner-hour as she 
entered the little garden and ran upstairs quickly to her 
room. Her first act when she reached it was to open the 
small tin box which she had carried about with her so 
long. Taking out the bunch of withered flowers— a 
tribute from Gerald Weare when as yet he was in doubt 
as to which of the two sisters he would favor with his affec- 
tions — she flung it impetuously into the empty grate, then, 
applying a lighted match, watched it flare up brightly, 
and sink as suddenly into a heap of dust. 

In spite of her impatient anger, she felt a pang — it was 
a volume in her life closed; what would the next contain? 
She felt very old, very sober, and wise with the wisdom 
that only sad experience can teach, as, having brushed her 
hair and washed the dust from her face and hands, she 
went down-stairs slowly, and so seemed to leave all the 
past behind her. Would the future be brighter? She felt 
no hope. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

When Colonel Severn returned from a walk which with- 
out his knowledge had extented for some miles, he found 
his guest had gone. He had returned, the servants told 
him, packed up his things, and driven away to the station 
in great haste, leaving a note behind which would, they 
suggested, probably explain his sudden departure. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


137 


The cariosity which was felt as to why he had gone so 
hurriedly and unexpectedly was not gratified by their mas- 
ter. Expressing no surprise at the news, he did not even 
open the letter which was placed in his hands until he was 
alone. Then he read as follows:. 

“ My dear Colonel,— You will think it of a piece 
with the rest of my strange conduct that, having come to 
stay a week with you, I should go at the expiration of a 
day. I believe you will do me the justice to believe that 
this is from necessity, not choice. If you wish to know 
more, perhaps Miss Ellen Warde will tell you. It is on 
her account I have gone — v 

Here Severn paused a moment. Was it possible that he 
too had been sent away — that this girl would not be wooed 
from her mysterious lonely life even when she loved the 
wooer? What firm resolve must be concealed in that deli- 
cate frame, and how serious must be the secret that 
forced her to act so! Again he took up the letter and 
read on: 

“ My own inclination would have kept me- here. From 
the first I was attracted by your strength of character and 
unselfishness, perhaps because they were the attributes I 
lacked myself. I, who have ever been the sport of the 
winds, the slave of every idle fancy, and who have never 
hesitated to sacrifice another for myself, can yet appreci- 
ate such virtues in another. 

“ Then you saved my life — a worthless life, it is true, 
and valueless even to myself since I had lost all that makes 
life worth the living — still you risked your own to save it, 
and I have not forgotten that. ' I never shall. 

“ Don’t believe what that morbid old Australian said 
last night. It is not true — I know it by my own feelings. 
I would die sooner than work harm to you; I would die — 
it would be only paying a debt— to secure you anything on 


138 


HER OWN SISTER. 


which your life depended. Believe that, and test me if 
occasion should demand. I am protesting wildly and over 
romantically, you will say, but it is from the bottom of 
whatever heart I still possess. I esteem and admire you 
more than any man I ever knew. I should like to prove 
that and my gratitude some day. 

“ The horses are waiting, and horses must, not be kept 
waiting, -however melodramatic may be the situation. 
Good-bye! We may never meet again, but I hope you 
won't forget one who will often remember your goodness, 
who, erratic and good for nothing as he may be, is still 
“ Your sincere well-wisher, 

“Gerald We are." 

A strange letter, and characteristic of the writer, who 
was always inclined to take a theatrical attitude on the 
smallest provocation; yet Severn recognized the real 
earnestness of the feeling expressed, and believed some- 
thing of what he professed, if not all. The selfishness of 
which the young fellow was himself conscious he had also 
seen; but he knew he was good-natured too, and had often 
traced to him a generous deed of which the doer seemed 
half ashamed. 

Well, he was gone now, and the field was clear; yet the 
colonel had no hope of triumph in the future. He was 
beginning to understand that Ellen was capable of a strong 
resistance. If the man she loved could not move her, how 
could he hope to win her, for whom she felt only friend- 
ship, and even that of such short standing? 

He had given up hoping, he told himself, but that 
should not prevent him from doing all he could for her. 
What merit would there be in serving if he had an idea of 
reward in the end? No; he would give all and ask noth- 
ing in return, proving his passion by acts, not empty 
words; so he must at least win her friendly esteem, if not 
her love. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


139 


Mrs. Priolo hurried back after her unexpected interview 
with the colonel, congratulating herself upon her escape 
and the ingenuity with which she had contrived it. How 
easily men were hoodwinked, especially when in love! 
How easily a woman could circumvent the cleverest of 
them! 

Like many of her class, the housekeeper mistook what 
was merely low cunning for intelligence, and only regretted 
she had not developed it earlier in life; for brains com- 
bined with a pretty face, she reflected complacently, might 
rise to any eminence. Her success encouraged her to con- 
tinue the course she had marked out for herself; and, 
though it was a dangerous game she proposed to play, she 
felt no fear as to the result. Overweening conceit stood 
her in place of the higher attribute of self-confidence; and 
avarice, seeing the golden prize ahead, was inclined to un- 
derrate the perils of the path that led to it. She knew 
enough of Mr. Bowyer's affairs to be aware that when he 
spoke of twenty thousand pounds as the half of his fortune 
he had estimated it at less than the real value. Its total 
must be at least sixty thousand — and all this might be her 
own! Might? Nay, would be if woman’s wit had not 
lost its vaunted power! 

It was therefore with some elation that she entered the 
little room where Mr. Bowyer was seated. 

“What a long time you have been V 9 he began queru- 
lously, looking up from his paper. 

“ I thought Miss Ellen was with you, or Pd have hur- 
ried. Have you been alone all the time? I am so sorry!” 

“ Ellen is not down yet. Perhaps you had better go 
and see if she wants anything. Poor child, I am afraid 
she is in a weak state of health, or she would not have 
gone off into such a deep swoon ! I am quite alarmed. ” 

“ I don't fancy there is much the matter with her now, 
at all events.” 

“ Why do you say that?” 


140 


HER OWN SISTER. 


44 Because I saw her, a couple of miles from here, talk- 
ing to the gentleman who came last night. ” 

44 Ah, indeed!” said Mr. Bowyer. 

He was vexed that Ellen had not confided to him her 
intention of going to meet Gerald Weare. Of course she 
would tell him when she returned; but to be consulted 
after action was taken would be a very poor compliment 
indeed. It was injudicious of her thus to draw notice 
upon herself — indeed it was a species of ingratitude to 
himself as well, for, he having already risked so much in 
her behalf, she had no right to allow the risk to be in- 
creased. She ought not to have moved in the matter with- 
out his permission; or, if she chose to exercise her right 
of action, she might at least have asked his advice. He 
changed the subject quickly to hide his annoyance. 

44 Had you a successful visit to Greathaven? Did you 
get what you wanted?” he inquired. 

44 Yes; they have good shops. I shall go over again 
some day. The walk is really nothing — in this cold 
weather it does one good. Nine miles there and back, 
they call it; but, if you take the short cuts, I fancy it is 
barely six.” 

44 You will find the effects of it afterward, I expect. 
You should have driven, as I told you; there would have 
been no difficulty in hiring a trap. If I make up my 
mind to stay here, I must buy a little phaeton and pair of 
ponies for Ellen to drive . 99 

44 That would be delightful! What a lucky girl she is, 
to be sure! By the bye, I got that stuff she recommended 
— the poison, you know.” 

44 Then I hope you will get some rest now. You’re 
looking quite fagged,” he said, kindly. 

44 1 will have a good sleep this afternoon. I think per- 
haps I am a little tired, after all. ” 

44 Of course you are; but you will never take my ad- 


HER OWH SISTER. 141 

vice ” — man-like, visiting the sins of the absent on the 
one at hand. 

At that moment the door opened and Ellen entered in 
her ordinary morning-gown, presenting no sign, save the 
faint fresh color in her cheeks, that she had left the house. 

“ Good-morning,” she said, gently. 

Mr. Bowyer returned her greeting rather gruffly, and 
asked her if she was feeling better in a tone so palpably in- 
different that her anxiety was aroused. Was he angry 
with her? Or was it only that he himself felt unwell and 
incapable just then of sympathizing with any one else? 

“ I am all right — but you?” she answered, inquiringly. 

He muttered something that she could not hear; and, 
not liking to ask him to repeat what he had said, she stood 
in the center of the room, hesitating whether to stay there 
then or come in at another time when he was in a better 
humor. She had half intended to tell him who the 
stranger was who had visited them on the night before, 
and of the reason of her fainting-fit; but now, she decided, 
silence would be the kinder course. He was looking so ill 
and shaken himself, it would only upset him more; and he 
had borne enough on her account already. She had lost 
sight of the probability that he too might have recognized 
Mr. Weare, and, having no idea that Mrs. Priolo had been 
out that morning, she believed her own absence to be un- 
suspected. So while she stood debating pros and cons, the 
opportunity was lost. 

Mrs. Priolo had left the room on the girl's first en- 
trance, and now was heard calling her from down-stairs. 
A little surprised, Ellen obeyed the summons. 

The housekeeper was in the kitchen, and had a packet 
in her hand. The housemaid was also standing there. 

“ I beg your pardon for troubling you. Miss Ellen; 
but it's this arsenic. I don't know how to use it. " 

“ I am sure I don't,” returned Ellen, rather angry at 


142 


HER OWH SISTER. 


the persistent way in which her knowledge on the subject 
of poisons was taken for granted. 

“ Shall I put it down plain like this?” 

“ You can if you like; but I should not think any rat 
would be so idiotic as to eat it so.” 

“ You mean it should be mixed with something?” 

“ Why, of course — any child might know that!” 

The housekeeper's eyes gleamed vindictively, but she re- 
frained from retort; she trusted to the future for her re- 
venge. 

“ I'm sorry to be so stupid; but I shall know another 
time,” she answered, with outward pleasantness, then 
turned to an open cupboard. 

“ See — I'll put it on the top shelf out of reach for the 
present. Mary, mind you tell the cook what it is. Just 
look. Miss Ellen, in case Mr. Bowyer asks you to get him 
anything this afternoon. That's the sugar, and that's the 
salt; the arsenic is right out of the way at the back there. 
I declare it makes me quite nervous having such stuff in 
the house; but no one could make a mistake now." 

ei No, indeed, mum," said the housemaid, visibly im- 
pressed. 

Ellen, who could not help suspecting that the house- 
keeper was speaking with an object, remained silent, and 
presently went upstairs. 

Mr. Bowyer was still alone, and a sudden impulse 
prompted her so strongly to speak then that she felt she 
must obey it, and would have done so but that, as she 
waited for him to address her first, the dinner-bell rang, 
and her second chance was gone. 

In the afternoon they were left alone again, as Mrs. 
Priolo professed fatigue, and went to her own room; but 
Mr. Bowyer was cross, and, curtly declining Ellen's offers 
to play to him or read aloud, sat quietly in his arm-chair 
near the fire, till at last the heat and the unbroken silence 
caused him to doze off. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


143 


He slept for some hours, and woke up in a better tem- 
per. Though still at a loss to understand Ellen's reticence 
on the subject of Mr. Weare, he was now ready to believe 
that it might not be from any ulterior motive; for he was 
really fond of the girl, and showed it in his manner when 
nothing occurred to ruffle his equanimity. How, as he 
addressed her kindly, Ellen only too gladly accepted the 
olive-branch. Changeable, even cross and unjust though 
he often was, she recognized the warmth of feeling he 
really cherished for her deep down in his heart; and then 
was he not the only creature in the wide, wide world on 
whom she had any claim? Having no strong-minded 
yearnings after independence, she clung the more closely 
to the home he had made for her. 

She went across the room, and stood behind his chair, 
her arm resting on the top rail, talking to him gently 
about general matters which she thought might interest 
him, loath to disturb the harmony between them by recur- 
ring to the hateful past. Presently he asked for some tea, 
and she went to get it ready. Ho servant was ever 
allowed to prepare any of the food for the invalid; for it 
was really a labor of love on Ellen's part, and professedly 
so on Mrs. Priolo's, besides which, the doctor had insisted 
on great care being exercised in all matters of diet. 

She came back in a few minutes with a cup of tea sweet- 
ened and with cream as he liked it, and, putting it down 
on a small table beside him, was going to draw a chair 
closer to the fire, when she remembered something that she 
had forgotten to tell the servants, and ran down-stairs 
again. As she returned, having been detained longer than 
she expected, and while still at a little distance from the 
sitting-room door, she thought she heard a stifled cry pro- 
ceeding from that direction. She stood still to listen, then, 
seized with a sudden indefinable fear, she rushed on into 
the room. 

Mr. Bowyer was writhing in terrible agony in his chair. 


144 


HER OWH SISTER. 


his face livid and drawn out of all resemblance to itself 
with pain; at intervals a sharp groan escaped from his lips, 
but it was evident that already he.was getting too weak to 
find relief even in that. 

Horrified and bewildered, feeling she was utterly useless 
in such a fearful emergency, Ellen ran back, screaming 
for help. 

The servants flew upstairs, but Mrs. Priolo, prompt and 
alert as usual, was on the spot first. 

16 What is it?” she called out sharply as she came up. 

Mr. Bowyer is dying!” cried Ellen, wildly. 

The housekeeper fell back against the wall as though 
shot. She had looked pale and frightened before, but now 
she turned almost gray, and gasped for breath. 

Ellen and the cook, an elderly woman who seemed to be 
the only one capable of action, had gone back into the 
room and were trying to administer brandy. They man- 
aged to get a few drops between his clinched teeth; and 
then Ellen, recovering her presence of mind, sent the 
housemaid for the doctor. The other two women stood 
and watched the suffering man, longing yet unable to help. 

It was heart-rending to see how utterly overcome and 
prostrated he was by pain, how his strength seemed to be 
slowly leaving him with each paroxysm. Sometimes, when 
the struggles ceased for a moment and he lay back with 
open upturned eyes, they thought he must be dead. 

Mrs. Priolo had disappeared, but in about ten minutes 
she came back with a glass of what looked like steaming 
punch. With something of her old composure and 
promptitude, though her face still maintained its ghastly 
pallor, she raised Mr. Bowyer’s head on her arm and 
ordered him to drink what she had brought. 

“ Brink every drop of it; it will do you good,” she said, 
peremptorily; and he obeyed her. 

A few minutes later he vomited violently. After that 


HER OWN SISTER. 


145 


the pains seemed to grow fainter, though the prostration 
still remained — indeed increased. 

When the doctor arrived, they had managed to get him 
into bed, and he had sunk into a sleep from exhaustion. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

It was Mrs. Priolo who explained exactly what had 
occurred, what the symptoms had been, and how, after a 
violent fit of vomiting, his condition had seemed to im- 
prove. 

“ What caused the sickness? Did you give him any- 
thing?” asked the doctor, looking keenly from one to an- 
other of the women who were in the room. 

<c Nothing but some hot brandy and water,” answered 
the housekeeper, quickly. “ I thought it might be cramp, 
or something of that sort. ” 

“ Well, well, whatever caused it, undoubtedly it saved 
his life. ” 

“ What was the matter with him, sir?” cried the cook. 
“ It came on so sudden like. At dinner he was quite well, 
and at five Miss Ellen came down and got him a cup of 
tea. He was quite well then, was he not, miss?” 

Ellen nodded her head in confirmation. All four wom- 
en stood round the bed, awed and distressed; the whole 
affair was so inexplicable, and therefore so alarming. 
Every eye was fixed now upon the medical man in the ex- 
pectation of having the mystery cleared, and none but 
Mrs. Priolo noticed that the eyelids of the sick man moved 
faintly and his thin pinched features quivered. Slowly he 
was waking out of the sleep which had been half uncon- 
scious. 

“ Mr. Bowyer has taken poison!” said the doctor, 
severely. “ Through some culpable carelessness, arsenic 
must have been mixed in the tea he drank this after- 

yy 


noon. 


146 


HER OWN SISTER. 


From Ellen Wardens lips burst forth a faint exclama- 
tion. It was she who had given that tea and made it; it 
had passed through no other hands. 

What did it all mean? Was she going mad, or was this 
a repetition of the former terrible episode in her life? It 
was unnatural — appalling! She looked up. Both the 
servants, with evident distrust, were gazing in her direc- 
tion. Mrs. Priolo kept her eyes fixed on the doctor's face. 

44 The quantity he took was very small doubtless," he 
went on, gravely — 44 indeed it must have been so for him 
to be alive now, for in his weak state less than half the 
ordinary dose would have proved fatal; but — " 

He stopped abruptly, suddenly conscious of the fact that 
no one was listening. Mr. Bowyer's eyes had opened wide 
and were fixed on Ellen Warde. Their expression was 
unmistakable — full of reproachful accusation and a horror 
too deep for words. 

As suddenly, in her bewildered glance round, she en- 
countered the fearful look he gave her, all the blood in her 
body seemed to rush to her face, and her heart nearly 
stopped its beating. Then, with a shrill terror-stricken 
cry, she turned and fied from the room. 

The servants began to ask each other in whispers what 
it all meant — a question to which neither dared reply. 
Mrs. Priolo, who had remained unmoved by all that had 
taken place, bent over the invalid's pillow to rearrange it, 
and met his appealing meaning look, which apparently she 
understood. 

“This is all very terrible — very terrible!" declared the 
doctor, growing even graver than he had been at first. 

44 It is a most unfortunate accident," agreed the house- 
keeper; 44 and we must be thankful it had not a more mel- 
ancholy ending. How that Mr. Bowyer is safe, we can 
afford to forgive the carelessness which caused it; but I 
am sure it will be a long time before Miss Ellen will for- 
give herself. I bought the arsenic myself to-day, and 


HER OWN SISTER. 


147 


placed it in the same cupboard where the sugar, salt, and 
such things are all kept. I feel I am much to blame too, 
for when you are in a hurry it is so easy to make mis- 
takes. ” 

The sick man’s eyes closed wearily, and he gave a re- 
lieved sigh. 

The doctor still looked doubtful, but was too much a 
man of the world not to accept the proffered explanation. 
He prescribed some remedial medicines for Mr. Bowyer; 
and, with repeated injunctions to keep up his strength and 
not let him be disturbed, he took his leave. 

When all that she could do was done, and Mr. Bowyer 
had sunk into a quiet refreshing sleep, Mrs. Priolo left the 
sick-room and went in search of Ellen Warde. The girl 
was at her mercy now, and dared not refuse any terms she 
chose to dictate. For the future, there would be no one 
to stand in her light; in anticipation she might look upon 
Mr. Bowyer’s fortune as her own. 

Entering the sitting-room, she found it in darkness, the 
servants having been too busy to light the lamps; but the 
window-curtains were still undrawn, and a flood of brill- 
iant moonlight streamed across the floor. By 'its light she 
found the girl she sought. She was crouched upon the 
sofa in an attitude of utter hopelessness. She was not 
weeping, because the situation was too sad, too terrible for 
tears. Mrs. Priolo coughed to attract her attention, and 
she sprung up instantly and faced her defiantly, feeling in- 
tuitively that she had come on no friendly errand. 

“ What is it?” she asked, haughtily, determined not to 
give in to her enemy at once, however weak the defense 
she had to offer. 

“ That is what I came to ask you. I must beg to re- 
mind you of a fact you have hitherto forgotten. I am Mr. 
Bowyer’s sister-in-law as well as his housekeeper; and it 
is as the former that I shall question you now.” 

“ What do you want to know?” 


148 


HER OWN SISTER. 


Mrs. Priolo drew herself up to her full height. She was 
a tall thin woman, and looked taller than she really was in 
the menacing position that she had adopted. 

“I want to know how it happened that arsenic was 
given to Mr. Bowyer in his tea to-day?” 

The girl shuddered slightly as she recognized the mean- 
ing in her tones, but replied with tolerable composure — 

4 £ I know as little about it as you. I certainly made the 
tea this afternoon, but I took the tea and sugar and milk 
from their usual places. If arsenic was mixed with one of 
them, I had of course no knowledge of it.” 

44 For that there is only your word; and you have others 
to persuade as well as me.” 

44 No one so hard and cruel as you!” cried the girl, des- 
perately. 44 Who else would believe that I — his niece — 
could do so terrible a thing as that which your manner 
suggests?” 

44 You are not his niece,” the housekeeper reminded 
her, coldly. 4 4 Mr. Bowyer had no sisters and no brother 
except my late husband.” 

44 You do not know that. It is mere conjecture.” 

44 Is it? We shall see presently how much I know, how 
much I only guess, if you drive me to speaking plainly. 
Take my advice, and go from here at once before an in- 
quiry is raised.” 

44 1 do not fear an inquiry. I should rather court it, 
seeing that I am innocent.” 

44 That has to be proved. Everything is against you; it 
was you who suggested bringing the poison into the house; 
it was you who gave Mr. Bowyer the drink in which the 
poison was mixed; it was you who had the strongest reason 
to wish for his death. I know that he told you he would 
leave you twenty thousand pounds. ” 

The pale silvery light that fell upon Ellen’s face showed 
plainly its perplexity and pain. It seemed as though a net 


HEK OWN SISTER. 


149 


had been thrown over her and she was inextricably en- 
tangled in its meshes. 

“ What is it you wish me to do?” she exclaimed, help- 
lessly. 

“ I wish you to leave the house at once — never to return, 
never to cross our paths here or anywhere again. ” 

“ You can not mean that. EonT you see it would be 
a confession of guilt were I to go away so?” 

“ And was it not a confession of guilt when you declined 
to meet Mr. Bowyer’s accusing look just now?” Then, as 
the girl still stood her ground, she added, laying more and 
more emphasis on each spiteful, cruel word, “ And was it 
not a confession of guilt when two years ago you fled rather 
than stand your trial for the murder of your own sister?” 

Ellen covered her face with her hands and gave a low 
moan full of uncontrollable anguish. Was she never to be 
free from the past, never to escape its consequences? 

“ You know that?” she breathed, faintly. 

“ I know all, Elaine Warrington; and I leave you to 
think what chance you would have of clearing yourself 
from the present charge against you were I to reveal that 
other one which now rests in abeyance. Who could doubt 
your capability of attempting to murder a man who was 
merely an adopted relative, an uncle by repute, when 
already you had been accused of a crime a thousand times 
more unnatural, more fiendish?” 

The girl fell upon her knees, her hands clasped above 
her head, utterly broken and conquered. 

“ Oh, spare me, spare me!” she implored. “Why 
do you persecute me? Wliy do you hate me so?” 

!Not a gleam of pity was in the womans cold metallic eyes 
as she looked down on the bent figure before her. There 
was only the triumph of gratified malice in manner and ex- 
pression as she replied — 

“ It is because I wish you well that lam speaking to you 


150 


HER OWN SISTER. 


thus alone, instead of publicly denouncing you, as I might 
have done.” 

Elaine realized the hopelessness of all appeal, and rose 
slowly to her feet. 

“ It is late — too late for you to go now; but early to- 
morrow morning you must leave, or take the consequences. 
I will not sit down to another meal with you; the house has 
been contaminated too long already by your presence.” 

Elaine looked at her curiously, scarcely believing in the 
reality of such inexorable hatred. Was it possible she could 
really believe her to be culpable? Yet it seemed even more 
unlikely that she would profess to believe it merely to fur- 
ther her own ends. In any case she could not stoop to de- 
fend herself; moreover, she felt convinced that neither ex- 
planation nor entreaty would avail. 

“ Well,” asked the woman, insolently, “ what do you 
think of me? You’ve stared at me long enough, I’m sure.” 

“ I think you must be a very wicked woman,” returned 
the girl, quietly. 

“ The opinion of such as you is worth nothing; but, con- 
sidering you’re in my power, you’d better keep it to your- 
self,” was the sharp retort, though the speaker had per- 
ceptibly winced under Elaine’s contemptuous gaze and the 
candor of her reply. 

“ I have no fear of you. I know you are only too glad 
to be rid of me so easily. If I never come back, you will 
be content to let matters remain as they are?” 

“ I have promised not to say what I know if you keep 
away; that was pure charity.” 

<c Charity from you!” 

Trembling all over wijth suppressed excitement and anger, 
Mrs. Priolo’s real coarseness and vulgarity burst through 
the thin coating of veneer with which she had endeavored 
to hide them, and, reverting to her real self — the quondam 
bar-maid of Montreal — with one hand upraised in denuncia- 
tion, she heaped one invective on another, but without 


HER OWN SISTER. 


151 


provoking a reply. Scarcely deigning a glance in her di- 
rection, Elaine turned quietly and left the room, closing 
the door behind her. 

The housekeeper could not help feeling uncomfortably 
aware that, though the victory was • hers, all the dignities 
and honors of war which should have accompanied it were 
on the other side. 


CHAPTER XX. 

A dull foggy morning. Though there had been no rain, 
the ground was quite wet, and showers of drops fell from 
the overhanging trees at every gust of wind. The damp 
seemed to cling to and envelope everything, while the cold 
was so piercing and penetrating that even in his thick over- 
coat Colonel Severn shivered as he rode on quickly toward 
Greathaven. It was business, not pleasure, that took him 
out that morning; afterward he was half inclined to call it 
fate. 

Presently, a few paces before him — for the fog prevented 
his seeing further than that ahead — he saw a girl struggling 
on under the weight of a heavy bag, her saturated skirts 
clinging round her feet and impeding her progress. 

Something familiar struck him in the gait, and ho hurried 
on till he came nearly to her side. She was dressed in 
black, and a thick crape veil hid her features; but a gleam 
of light golden hair and an involuntary shrinking away as 
she turned and saw him assured him of her identity, though 
her presence there at such an hour and in such a plight 
seemed impossible. 

“ Miss Warde, is it you?” 

A momentary impulse prompted her to affect not to 
know him, and so to pass on unquestioned; but she was 
weak and weary, and could not resist the temptation of 
speaking to him, though it were only to say good-bye. 

She threw back her veil and disclosed a face pale and 


152 


HER OWK SISTER. 


sad, but infinitely lovely. The moisture lay in drops upon 
her thick crape bonnet and on the soft tendrils of bright 
hair, but her deep gray eyes shone through the fog like two 
stars, while her red lips quivered piteously, like those of a 
frightened child. 

“ Yes, it is I,” she said. 

“ But what are you doing here at this time?” 

“ I might ask the same of you,” she returned, with an 
attempt at gayety which completely failed to deceive him, 
so pathetic was the little catch in her voice which she tried 
to turn into a laugh. 

“ That is a different thing altogether. You are walking, 
and have a traveling-bag. You are going away — where?” 

“ Where ?” she repeated vaguely; then, with a sudden 
sense of the desperateness of her position, she added pas- 
sionately, ec Ah, if I only knew!” 

Severn had got down from his horse; the bridle was over 
his arm, and the bag that she held he had taken from her; 
with his other hand he touched her lightly on the sleeve. 

“ Let me tell you. Trust yourself to my guidance,” he 
entreated. 

“ There is no one I would sooner listen to.” 

“ Then turn back with me now. Mr. Bowyer is your 
natural protector. Believe me, it is very, very hard for a 
woman to face the world alone. Don't try it — don't.” 

{i If you knew all,” she began. 

“ My advice would still be the same. In every phase of 
life there are trials to be borne; but a woman is always 
safer and happier in her own home.” 

“ Mr. Bowyer is not my uncle.” 

Colonel Severn expressed no surprise. He had suspected 
for some time that the tie between them was not that of 
relationship. 

“ Still he has adopted you; and that he is really fond of 
you I am sure. Have you any one nearer to you than he 
is?” 


HER OWN SISTER. 


153 


She shook her head sadly. 

“ Then take my advice, and go back/* 

With a movement he indicated the way that she should 
go; but she still hung back, hesitating. 

4 4 First listen to my story. ” 

Again he interrupted, her, this time with an accent of 
authority. 

44 I will listen as we walk back together. Come.” 

Half smiling, she complied, though her eyes were full of 
tears. She felt inexpressibly comforted by his presence, 
his sympathy and proffered help. No longer was she quite 
alone, and by no other would she so gladly be counseled 
and directed. 

When their faces were turned toward Littlehaven, and 
while they were walking along briskly side by side, Ellen 
blurted out her story — the events of the day before. 

Put into plain words, and told in the light of day, the 
consciousness of innocence pervading the recital, the whole 
thing sounded ridiculous and far-fetched. She was not 
surprised when the colonel laughed aloud as she finished. 

4 4 Why, the woman must be mad as well as wicked, to 
imagine you capable of such a crime! Pshaw — it is too ab- 
surd!” 

44 And yet to any one who did not believe in me the case 
would seem a very strong one. It was I who suggested 
having the poison to kill the rats, instead of a trap, and I 
who made the tea in which the poison must have been.” 

44 It is too absurd,” he repeated. 44 1 wonder you allowed 
yourself to be frightened so.” 

She looked away from him as she replied in a low shamed 
voice — 

44 But then you don't know all. There is a secret — 
something that happened long ago — which she has discov- 
ered — something which it would ruin me were she to tell. 
It was that with which she threatened me.” 

44 My poor little girl!” 


154 


HER OWN SISTER. 


The words broke from his lips in irrepressible pity. How 
slight and frail she looked as she battled with the wind, 
and so child-like! Yet she had this ever-present terror 
about which she could not speak and was afraid to think. 

She looked up gratefully into his face. She saw that 
no doubt existed in his mind as to her innocence, and felt 
it very sweet to meet with such sympathy. 

Severn had been puzzling how to advise her for the best; 
presently he asked her — 

“ Has Mr. Bowyer any idea of — of this secret?” 

“ Oh, yes, he knows it very well!” 

“ Then surely he has some influence with his housekeeper 
to prevent her speaking against his wish?” 

“ But would he use that influence now? Last night he 
looked at me with a convulsive shiver that was not caused 
by damp or cold — as though — as though he really believed 
me capable of trying to harm him. ” 

Colonel Severn looked grave. A doubt assailed him 
whether he had done well in inducing her to return. He 
had seen, when Mr. Bowyer first mooted the subject of 
the girFs marriage portion, that she no longer stood so 
high with him as formerly. What if this unreasonable 
suspicion had alienated his affection al together? If he were 
ready to combine with Mrs. Priolo against her, Ellen 
Warded position might be a very dangerous one, and he — 
Severn — would have placed her in it. His only course 
would be to leave her at the Abbey while he went and saw 
how the land lay. 

The same idea seemed to have struck Elaine, for she 
suggested timidly — 

“ Had we not better discover whether Mr. Bowyer is 
willing to receive me back before I go there?” 

“ That would be the best plan. I will go myself and 
find out. But first we must have some breakfast. You 
look quite pale and tired.” 

A few minutes more brought them to the Abbey. A 


HER OWN SISTER. 


155 


pleasant-looking elderly woman opened the door to them, 
and at Colonel Severn's command led the way to a room 
where a bright fire was burning. 

There Ellen dried her clothes as best she could and 
brushed the wet from her hair; then she went to the break- 
fast-room, where Colonel Severn was waiting. He was pre- 
paring the coffee, and looked a little abashed when Ellen 
entered. 

“ They always make it so badly — I thought I would see if 
I could remember how we used to manage it in camp, ” he 
said. 

“ Let me do it," she begged; and delightedly he assented, 
watching her with a half smile and just a tinge of sadness 
while she flitted about so naturally and without gene , as 
though she was in her own home. 

There were both pain and pleasure in seeing her at the 
head of his table, her pretty slim fingers hovering over the 
massive silver coffee-service, of so old a fashion that to lift 
the largest piece she had to take both hands. If only it 
might be always so — he and she together! 

When the meal was over — to Severn it seemed the short- 
est to which he had ever sat down — Ellen rose and went 
over to the mantel-piece. Two photograph frames were on 
it; one contained a portrait of Charlie, looking very bright 
and handsome in cricketing flannels, and the other that of 
a girl with soft blue eyes and fair hair, something like him 
in feature, but dressed in the style of some twenty years be- 
fore. She guessed who it was, and felt a vague sense of 
jealousy. Though she had died so long ago, it might be 
that her memory was dearer to him who had been her hus- 
band than any living woman could ever be. 

“ That is my poor wife," said Colonel Severn, who had 
followed the direction of her gaze. 

There was just the proper amount of regret in his tones, 
yet Ellen knew at once— such freemasonry is there in love 
— that she need have no fear. Whatever had induced him 


156 


HER OWN SISTER. 


to marry his wife, it had not; been the prompting of pas- 
sion, or else the feeling had long since died oat and was for- 
gotten. Glancing shyly at his face, Ellen decided that the 
former supposition was the more likely. to be true; his eyes 
were so steadfast, and the firmness of his lips too precluded 
the idea that he could easily change. Besides, he had told 
her once that he had never been in love. Their eyes met, 
and she averted hers, feeling embarrassed and suddenly be- 
coming self-conscious. 

He noticed her confusion, and, though he did not guess 
by what it was engendered, he hastened to set her at ease. 

“ Now I will go and interview Mr. Bowyer,” he said. 
“ Here is an easy-chair — the easiest in the room; take my 
word for it. Miss Warde — and here are some new maga- 
zines. Mind the servants keep up a good fire, and ask for 
anything you want.” 

He had suited his actions to his words, and after seeing 
her comfortably seated before the fire, with a pile of papers 
and books on a table beside her, went out. 

When he had left the room, Ellen jumped up and 
watched him from the window. How strong and stalwart 
he looked as he walked away with rapid strides — a man to 
trust in all things, to lean upon and look to for advice and 
aid — a faithful friend, a true lover! 

The day had brightened somewhat, though the sun was 
still hiding behind a thin veil of clouds; the wind had nearly 
driven away the fog. It came in sharp strong gusts, and all 
the lawn and the neatly kept drive were strewn with fallen 
leaves; the trees looked bare and cold. Altogether it was 
more like winter than autumn; and Ellen soon returned to 
her seat near the fire. 

She was all alone in the house that was her lover’s. 
What wonder if fancies overmastered facts and ran riot in 
strange directions? Thoughts sweet and tender made the 
blood mantle her pale cheeks and set her eyes a-glowing. 
She forgot the troubles of the present in day-dreams of a 


HER OWN SISTER. 


157 


possible future, till presently she fell asleep, and, sleeping, 
dreamed. 

There was no surprise in her expression, only unalloyed 
pleasure, when, more than an hour later, she awoke and 
found Severn at her side. He had come back and found 
her sleeping, and involuntarily the name by which he 
thought of her escaped from his lips, and the sound roused 
her. 

44 Elaine!” he had whispered, not meaning her to hear; 
but, when her eyes opened, he felt constrained to say some- 
thing to break the spell which he saw held her as well as 
him. Cruel as it was to remind her of the trouble which 
for the moment had escaped her mind, he felt it would be 
best, or who knew how their interview might end? 

44 I have come from Mr. Bowyer. He is ready to receive 
you back. Will you come with me now, or will you rest a 
little longer?” 

“Iam quite ready when you are.” 

She had risen to her feet, and the dazed dreamy look was 
fading from her face as slowly she remembered where she 
was and why. 

4 4 What did he say?” she asked, eagerly. 44 Hoes he 
think — ” 

44 He is ill and fanciful,” interposed the colonel, not 
allowing her to finish; 44 and that horrid woman had evi- 
dently poisoned his mind against you. But that he loves 
you still, I am certain; and when he sees you the absurd 
suspicion will soon die a natural death.” 

She stood with clasped hands gazing hopelessly before 
her. 

44 But we will not wait for that,” he went on quickly. 
44 1 will find out who really did it, so that you may be ex- 
onerated and happy. I will start an inquiry to-day, and 
will not rest, I promise you, till it is completed.” 

44 How good you are to me!” she murmured. 

44 If you only knew what a pleasure it is to me to befriend 


158 


HEE OWET SISTEE. 


you, you would not have broken your promise to come to 
me if ever you were in trouble — you would say I was the 
most selfish man in existence / 9 he told her, smiling. 

When she had resumed her outdoor clothing, they started 
for the Dower House. 

On the road Colonel Severn spoke to her of his life in 
India, of the adventures he had had there and the cam- 
paigns he had been through. He sought to turn her 
thoughts from the present trouble, and so strengthen her 
for the meeting with Mr. Bowj-er, which he guessed would 
be a trying one; and he partly succeeded. 

She listened eagerly as he talked; to hear of the years 
that he had spent before she knew him was inexpressibly 
interesting. Her heart bled for him as she realized how 
little of brightness and joy those years had ever known, 
though it was only by inference and unintentionally that he 
admitted how lonely he had often been. Very seldom he 
spoke about himself, and then only as briefly as might be; 
but on this day, speaking to the woman he loved, who 
was his friend, his tongue seemed loosened, and every word 
came from his heart, while his tones betrayed even more 
than he intended. 

The walk was over sooner than either wished. Severn 
sighed for a pleasure ended, and Ellen shrunk back nerv- 
ously as she remembered the ordeal to come. 

“ You are not frightened? Shall I go in with you?” he 
asked, his hand upon the gate. 

“ I think it would be better to go alone — he would like 
it better too; but I thank you very, very much for all your 
kindness.” 

He looked at h§r for a moment without replying, then 
said — 

“ To-day Mr. Bowyer spoke of you as ‘ Elaine 9 by mis- 
take, and the other day I heard you called so too. Is it 
your real name?” 

She bowed her head in assent. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


159 


“ Thank you for trusting me so far. I am glad I know 
how to call you in my thoughts. That other name never 
fitted, never seemed appropriate at all; but Elaine — Elaine 
the lily-maid— it is the sweetest name that woman ever 
bore!” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

To the surprise of every one, Mr. Bowyer had so far re- 
covered on the morning after his narrow escape from being 
poisoned that he was able to go down-stairs soon after 
breakfast, and sat by the fire in his dressing-gown, looking 
white and shaken certainly, yet far better than might have 
been expected. The fact was, the apprehensions of the 
past month had been more terrible to him to bear than the 
actual danger in which he had been on the night before. 
Like many other nervous people, he could better face a real 
than a fancied cause of dread, and could show considerable 
strength of mind when it was absolutely needed. 

He was naturally deeply grieved and disappointed at the 
discovery of Elaine's supposed perfidy; but he had been in 
a manner prepared for it by the housekeeper's repeated 
hints and warnings, and it was almost a relief to know that 
the worst was over and he need fear no more. 

Oddly enough, he did not feel his indebtedness to Mrs. 
Priolo as keenly as she had a right to expect; indeed he 
felt what even to himself seemed an unreasonable wrath 
with her because the prognostications he had affected to dis- 
credit had proved correct. Perhaps she had not been 
altogether able to keep the “ I told you so " expression from 
her face which men, especially those who pride themselves 
upon their sharpness, always find so galling. However this 
might be, he felt angry and sore at heart, his chief anxiety 
being the doubt that now exercised his mind as to what was 
to become of this girl whom no impulse of gratitude or 
affection could restrain. 


160 


HER OWN SISTER. 


He had come to no conclusion when Severn was an- 
nounced, and rather welcomed his arrival as a temporary 
relaxation from the thought that troubled him. 

“ I am glad to see you looking so well,” began the 
colonel, as they shook hands. 

“ Th'en you have heard all about it — the accident, I 
mean?” 

“ Not all ” — meaningly. “ But I know you took sorno 
poison by mistake, and must congratulate you on having so 
far recovered from its effects. ” 

“ It was rather a narrow escape, I fancy. You see 99 — 
with an attempt atgayety- — “ I am such a bag of bones and 
nerves that it would take less to kill me than most men.” 

A slight pause, which Severn broke by coming abruptly 
to the point. 

“ I came,” he said, “ to speak to you about Miss Warde . 99 

“ She is in her room, I believe. Do you wish to speak 
to or of her?” — striving to maintain an appearance of ease, 
though this was the last subject in the world which he was 
ready to discuss just then. If the colonel had come to make 
overtures on his son’s behalf, how could he reply? He felt 
that after what had passed he ought not to allow Elaine to 
enter another house as a. loved and trusted inmate — yet 
what reason could he give for a refusal? 

“ I have spoken to her already. Have you not heard 
that she left your house this morning?” 

Try as he would, Mr. Bowyer felt it impossible to keep an 
expression of contentment from his face. This was exactly 
what he would have wished her to do. To turn a woman 
out of doors was more than he could do, were she the veri- 
est wretch in creation; but, if she chose to leave him, he 
was free from blame-free even from self-reproach. 

“ I met her on the road between this and Greathaven 
this morning, struggling against the wind and wet through 
with the fog. I guessed something of her intentions from 
the bag she was carrying, and afterward she told me what 


HER OWN" SISTER. 


161 


had passed, and how — it seems absurd to repeat — you 
thought her guilty/ ' 

“ If she was not guilty, why did she leave my house?” 
questioned Mr. Bowyer, shrewdly. 

4 4 Because your housekeeper had discovered a secret in 
her past life, and brought such pressure to bear on her.” 

“ Impossible!” — half starting from his chair. 

Cf It is what she told me; and I do not think her capable 
of falsehood. ” 

Mr. Bowyer leaned back again and looked thoughtfully 
into the fire. 

“ Do you think any man can judge a woman truly? The 
intricacies and contradictions of her character must always 
remain a mystery to him, and he is never quite unbiased 
by the personal attributes, perhaps attractions, she may 
possess.” 

44 I think, ” returned the colonel, decisively, 4 4 that it is 
impossible to mistake a bad woman for a pure one, or vice 
versa . Men are sometimes queer mixtures of good and 
evil, but no woman could do what you suspect Miss Warde 
of having done unless she were utterly abandoned; and 
that ” — warmly — 44 1 can swear Miss Warde is not.” 

44 You are a younger man than 1,” observed the lawyer, 
dryly. 44 And yet I don't know that it is only youth that 
can be blinded by a pretty face and plausibility; for I too 
believed in her spite of repeated warnings, and once against 
almost incontrovertible evidence.” 

44 You were right then — you are wrong now, I assure 
you. ” 

44 1 wish I could believe you. I would give more than 
you imagine to know that Elaine was innocent, and worthy 
of my love. ” 

He spoke with real emotion, and the feeling of anger 
that had been in Severn's heart melted as he realized that 
it had not been lightly or with indifference that the girl for 
whom he pleaded had been condemned. It was impossible 


162 


HER OWN SISTER. 


to misconstrue the feeling which had prompted this last 
speech. The lawyers j udgment, which experience inclined 
him to trust, had been constrained to pronounce an adverse 
verdict, but his affection was hers still, and he would be 
glad to be convinced of error. 

“ Where was the child going when you met her?” — sud- 
denly. 

“ She did not know herself. To London, I suppose. ” 

“ Impossible! She had no money, or at most a few 
shillings, in her pocket. She would have starved. ” 

“ I am very thankful that I met her!” 

“ And so am I,” declared Mr. Bowyer, earnestly. 4 4 1 
should never have forgiven myself if anything had hap- 
pened to her. ” 

“ Then I may tell her she is to come back?” — inquir- 
ingly. 

Mr. Bowyer hesitated. 

“ I will allow her two, three, or four hundred a year, 
and let her live where she pleases,” he said at last. 

<c You know best if she would take an allowance from 
you; unless there is a close relationship between you, I 
should say she would not. While she thought herself of 
use to you she could accept your bounty, but not otherwise 
• — so at least I fancy. ” 

<e You have judged correctly, I am afraid. Even while 
under my roof, doing everything she could to help me, she 
would never let me give her anything beyond actual nec- 
essaries. ” 

<f So you must either welcome her back or renounce her 
altogether.” 

Mr. Bowyer’s brows were knit together in deep perplex- 
ity. Inclination and what he felt was duty were at war 
with each other, and the battle was a hard one. It was 
only by a stupendous effort of will that he allowed at last his 
innate nobility of mind to conquer. Though he believed 
her to have attempted his life, though to see her and live 


HER OWN SISTER. 


133 


with her again after what had occurred would be agony to 
him in his present state of physical and mental weakness, 
still he would do what he knew to be right — he would re- 
ceive her back. 

He stood up, an approving conscience giving him mo- 
mentary strength. 

“ Let her come. The past shall be forgotten, or at least 
forgiven.” 

You are still supposing her to be guilty?” — indignantly. 

Yes; I do suppose so” — sadly; “ but, having once 
taken a responsibility upon me, I will not shirk it.” 

- It was Colonel Severn’s turn to pause in doubt. All his 
pride in the woman he loved revolted at the idea of her be- 
ing received so, yet had he the right to refuse for her this 
her natural haven of refuge? He respected the old lawyer, 
and felt certain she would find justice and kindness at his 
hands, if not the love and confidence of old. Then where 
else could she go? Even if she loved him — Severn — well 
enough to marry him, he could not ask her to share his 
home if by so doing it became closed to his only son. Be- 
sides, did she not love Gerald Weare? 

Mr. Bowyer guessed something of what was troubling 
him, and, reseating himself, went on, in slow, passionless 
tones that were more convincing than the most violent as- 
severations — 

“ I might think with you if my knowledge of the case 
were as limited as yours. There was a time when I too be- 
lieved nothing against Ellen Warde, but that time has 
passed forever. Even if I were not predisposed to doubt 
her, from circumstances of which only I am aware, I could 
not be blind to the strong proofs against her now. ” 

“ And yet you would have her back, believing her so 
vile, and therefore I dare say not free from the fear that 
the danger you have undergone may occur again with a less 
fortunate sequel!” 

“ I am ready to take that risk ” — gravely. 


164 


HER OWN SISTER. 


44 Then I have only to beg that you will conceal your 
real opinion so far as you are able. ” 

44 All shall be as it was before. I am not quite a brute, 
I hope!" 

44 Indeed you are not!” cried Severn, enthusiastically, 
grasping his hand. 44 You are one of the noblest men I 
have ever met, if in this instance the most misguided. . I 
shall not be afraid to advise her to return.” 

Ho more remaining to be said, Severn took his leave, 
scarcely knowing whether to be satisfied with the result of 
his visit or no; and Mr. Bowyer's first act was to ring and 
request the presence of Mrs. Priolo. 

The summons was obeyed by her with some inward tre- 
mor; she guessed that Elaine's departure was discovered, 
and was uncertain how the invalid might take it. 

44 Were you aware that Miss Warde left the house this 
morning with the intention of not returning?” he began,, 
severely. 

44 I thought it was likely she would go. " 

4 4 Then why did you not warn me, so that I might pre- 
vent her?” 

44 Because you were too ill to be disturbed — because I did 
not think you would wish her to remain after what occurred 
last night,” answered Mrs. Priolo, boldly, though her heart 
sunk. 

44 Then kindly remember for the future that I am never 
too ill to be consulted on so important a matter — that I 
am master of my own house, and expect to be informed of 
all that is going on in it. " 

44 If I had known,” she faltered. 

44 You know now,” he told her, sternly. 

She stood there quietly, waiting for further orders, pro- 
foundly impressed by his manner, which had something of 
its former decision; his voice too was firm, and had none of 
the hesitation which had distinguished it of late. 

44 Miss Warde will return in less than an hour. See that 


HER OWK SISTER. 


165 


her room is ready for her and a fire burning. It is a mis- 
erably cold, damp day.” 

“ Coming back!” cried Mrs. Priolo, unable to disguise 
her surprise and disgust. 

• But Mr. Bowyer’s severe look recalled her to herself. 

“ Go at once and do as I have told you,” he commanded; 
and meekly she obeyed. 

Left alone, his strength to some degree collapsed. The 
knowledge that he was doing right had up to the present 
sustained him; but, when there was no further need for 
showing courage and determination, the power of doing so 
deserted him. 

He had loved his protegee more dearly than either he or 
she had supposed, and to be compelled to believe her capa- 
ble of so cowarctly a crime against him had hurt him more 
than the deed itself. Had she carried out her intention 
and thrown herself upon the world, he would never have 
forgiven himself, and would have remembered her more as 
sinned against than sinning. But she was coming back, 
and all the old terror would be revived with added vehe- 
mence — for, now he knew his suspicion to be well founded, 
he feared that what once had been attempted might be 
tried again, and with success. His existence would be a 
constant anxiety to himself; he could never forget the ter- 
rible possibilities that might at any time prove facts. The 
prospect appalled him. It was a ghastly idea that he 
should live under the same roof with one who had wished 
his death — had even tried to compass it. It was as though 
the last hours of a criminal should be spent with the execu- 
tioner who on the morrow was to take his life. His peace 
of mind was gone from him forever — for how could he be 
at ease in such a strait? The situation was unnatural— it 
was more than mortal man could bear. 

A hundred times he tried to reassure himself with the 
thought that she would not dare to attempt such a thing 
again, having once been suspected; it would be too great $ 


166 


HER OWN SISTER. 


risk to run were the coveted stakes ever so valuable. Yet 
neither reason nor common sense could avail him. 

Now that he had jfiedged himself to do his duty and 
could not recall his word, he found that the task was be- 
yond his strength. Such a trial he had neither the neces- 
sary physical nor the necessary mental power to endure. 


CHAPTER XXlI. 

An hour later, when Elaine crept in, Mr. Bowyer had 
mustered up sufficient courage to meet her with at least 
outward calm. She came in with downcast eyes and cheeks 
crimson with shame, not for herself, but him, because he 
should have misjudged her so. A painful feeling of shy- 
ness, still on his account, prevented her drawing near and 
kept her silent. Not for worlds would she have spoken, 
since all she could have said then must have been in self- 
exoneration or reproach. She could not — would not stoop 
to defend herself; while how could she upbraid him for this 
one sin against her, when in the past he had been so gen- 
erous in his aid? 

The sick man seemed to look her through and through, 
as though he would read her every thought; yet he was not 
surprised that he failed to pierce beneath the surface. Long 
before, in the zenith of his successful career, he had con- 
fessed his utter inability to gauge the inner workings of a 
womans brain. 

“ We see just as much as they wish us to see — no more,” 
he had said then laughingly to a colleague; and he said the 
same to himself now, but without a smile. Such truisms 
become so much more serious when applied to one's own 
case and proved to one's own discomfiture. 

Elaine's silence and her averted gaze might have been 
unhesitatingly attributed to guilt by one less experienced; 
but the old lawyer was more puzzled than convinced. He 
saw the pride beneath the quietude and humility of her de- 


HER OWH SISTER. 


167 


meanor, and he knew that such was her gratitude, real or 
affected, for what he had done before, that, however unjust 
he might be now, she would never rebel, but suffer mutely 
at his pleasure. 

Sighing deeply, he relinquished the subject. By and bye, 
when he was stronger, it could be reopened — now it tried 
and troubled him too much. For the present it must be 
set aside; and, since not actually proved guilty, Elaine 
must be treated as innocent — an advantage any criminal 
could claim. 

His self-imposed duty must be done wholly, or not at all. 

“ You are tired, child, and cold. You would like to go 
to your room. There is a fire there, and Jane will get you 
a cup of tea.” 

Tears sprung to her eyes at the unexpected tone of kind- 
ness. She came forward and knelt beside his chair, look- 
ing yearningly into his eyes, as though grateful for so 
much, yet wanting more — far more still. 

Somewhat nervously he avoided meeting her gaze. 

“ Go and rest, Elaine. You are overtired. After dinner 
you shall read to me if you are able. ’’ 

Disappointed, dispirited, the girl rose, understanding 
now what the terms were on which they met. He believed 
her guilty, yet, for his word’s sake, as he had adopted her 
cause at first, and promised Colonel Severn now to take 
her back, he would treat her well and kindly — but she must 
not attempt to cross the barrier between them. Love and 
confidence were withdrawn from her— she must not ask for 
either. Yet she, like Colonel Severn, did not fail to recog- 
nize his generosity in receiving her now that — believing 
what he did — love and trust were no longer possible. She 
must help him in his task, not make it more difficult by 
useless, painful appeals. She owed him so much — so 
much; never, never must she forget that! Smiling brave- 
ly, she thanked him, and left the room, mounting the 
stairs with a weary tread and still more weary heart. 


168 


HER OWH SISTER. 


Everything was against her. Could she ever bear it, en- 
during with patience and good temper to the end? 

The day passed at last — it was almost the longest she 
had ever known — and, when night came, and she laid her 
head on her pillow, she felt as though she should never 
raise it again. 

The next morning she was too ill to leave her bed; a 
low fever had seized her, due to the excitement of the past 
two days and a chill taken on the previous morning. For 
nearly a week she lay prostrate, happily too weak even to 
think, while exhausted nature gradually recovered itself. 
Then the natural elasticity of youth reasserted itself, and 
she could once more take up the burden of life, feeling all 
the stronger and more valiant for the brief rest. To Mr. 
Bowyer her absence had also come as a relief, and, when 
once assured that there was nothing seriously wrong, he 
reveled in the new sense of freedom from fear. Mrs. Priolo 
too was a much pleasanter companion now that they were 
alone; and often and often a secret wish arose that they 
had remained so — that he had never introduced this turbu- 
lent element into their quiet solitude a deux. 

But this happy state of things could not last forever. 
After a little while Ellen was down with them again, look- 
ing pale and weak after her illness, yet practically little the 
worse, for she had been delicate always, and never possessed 
much color. Then the old contentions recommenced, 
Mrs. Priolo soon rallied from the rebuff that she had re- 
ceived, and returned to the attack with renewed vigor, 
while Elaine, whose really sweet temper had somewhat 
suffered from the constant strain, retorted more frequently 
than she had done before. Formerly she had made some 
allowance for the woman's natural chagrin at having the 
field no longer to herself; but now — since the morning 
when she had been driven out into the world friendless and 
homeless by her cruel, scathing words of the night before 
■ — she looked upon her with undisguised loathing, as on 


HER OWN SISTER. 


169 


some noxious reptile whose venom might mean death, yet 
who engendered disgust rather than fear. She dreaded her 
no longer, and did not hesitate to show the hatred that she 
felt, though it could do no good, and might only incite her 
to further virulence. 

Mr. Bowyer was always kind to her-^-even affectionate 
and pitiful at times, when his better feelings had the as- 
cendency; yet she could not but notice that he avoided be- 
ing with her, and grew more and more dependent on the 
housekeeper for everything he wanted. And once it had 
been so different! Then nothing was rightly done unless 
she did it for him; and the change had come so gradually 
that she scarcely noticed it as it progressed — only now, 
when it was complete, and too late to combat. That she 
owed this toAfrs. Priolo she knew well, and dared not hope 
that her malice would rest satisfied with this. Yet what 
was she to do? 

On this subject Mrs. Priolo was also undecided. But 
one thing she had determined — the same roof should not 
shelter both. Mr. Bowyer had displayed more resistance 
than she had expected, but she would wear him out in 
time. A man's obstinacy, however strong, can always be 
conquered by the persistent droppings from a woman's 
tongue. 

For some time she gave only little hints and innuendoes 
which he could not fail to understand, yet to which there 
was absolutely nothing he could reply; then at last she de- 
cided that it was time to say something definite and to the 
point. 

She had come into the sitting-room and found him with 
his body bent toward the fire and his head buried in his 
hands. When, hearing footsteps, he looked up and saw her 
standing there, he pulled himself together instantly, and 
began to talk of indifferent matters, till, finding that he 
was receiving no answers, he lapsed as suddenly into silence. 

Then it was Mrs. Priolo's turn. 


170 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ I wish you would let me speak, sir,” she said, gravely. 

“ Could I prevent you?” — with an uneasy smile. “ To 
stop the flow of a woman’s eloquence is beyond the power 
of any man, and certainly beyond mine.” 

“You know what I mean — ” 

“ Do I?” 

Nothing in his tone or manner encouraged her to pro- 
ceed, yet she went on with the boldness of desperation. 

“You will never be happy and contented so long as that 
girl remains in the house.” 

“ Then I shall remain discontented, for I have no inten- 
tion of altering present arrangements. ” 

“ It is killing you by inches,” she declared. 

For a moment he looked startled. Always easily alarmed 
about his health, he was ready to believe that the strain 
upon his nerves was trying him beyond his strength, until 
he remembered who was speaking, and that it was to her 
interest to frighten him. 

“ If 1 am in any danger, the doctor will probably warn 
me of it. You are my housekeeper, not my medical ad- 
viser. ” 

“ I am your own brother’s widow, the trusted companion 
of the last ten years. Till Ellen Warde came we never had a 
disagreement. It is my loyalty to you that makes me brave 
your displeasure by saying what I think.” 

“'You have done what you believe to be your duty, I 
dare say. Let that content you. ” 

“ Further than that, I have done no good by speaking.” 

“ You have certainly not shaken my resolution in the 
very slightest. Miss Warde is my niece by adoption, if not 
by blood. I did not act unadvisedly or without due consid- 
eration when I brought her to my home.” 

“ But surely you will never trust her after what has hap- 
pened?” 

“ I will trust her implicitly,” he answered, more with 


HER OWH SISTER. 171 

the air of one who was making a vow to himself than in 
defiance of the warning given. 

“ Well, you know best, of course. You have known the 
young lady longer and you know her much better than I, 
and probably you have some good reason to believe her to 
be truthful and more trustworthy than late events would 
imply; you have some knowledge of her past — her home 
life — and can judge — ” 

“ Be silent l" he cried, in an angry quavering voic'*. 
“ Leave the poor girl in peace. At least she has never 
harmed you . 99 

“ I spoke for your sake,” she reminded him. 

<£ Then for my sake be silent for the future,” he said, 
with a cynical smile. 44 These discussions do me no good 
and give me unnecessary pain. Pray spare me any more. ” 

4 4 It is as you wish, of course.” 

She had said all that she had intended; and, even if she 
had contemplated any further innuendoes, it would have 
been impossible to speak them then, for the door opened 
and Elaine entered. 

She entered as she did always now, with a tremulous 
half-deprecating smile, as though she doubted her wel- 
come, yet felt it would look ungracious were she to stay 
away. Had Mr. Bowyer shown any sign of sleepiness or 
unwillingness to be amused, she would have crept away as 
quietly as she had come. But just now he was inclined to 
be kind to her and to prove his faith in her to himself as 
well as to the housekeeper. 

“ Where have you been, Ellen? I have missed you,” he 
said, gently. 

44 If I had only known, I could have come before. I was 
doing nothing — that is, nothing of consequence. ” 

4 4 Come and sit beside me. How cold your hands are!” 
—taking one into his as she passed. ‘ 4 Have you no fire 
in your bedroom?” 


172 


HER OWH SISTER. 


“ She never asked for a fire/' put in the housekeeper, 
tartly. 

“ Then give her one without the asking. I shall be seri- 
ously angry if it is not kept up regularly.” 

“ I did not feel the cold at all. It is only now when I 
come into the warm room that 1 realize it was perhaps a 
little chilly,” said Elaine. 

She half sat, half knelt on the fender-stool, and held out 
her hands to the blaze; so thin were they that the light 
seemed actually to shine through them and the delicate 
blue veins stood out with unnatural prominence. 

Mr. Bowyer watched her with something of the old ten- 
derness and concern. The attitude into which she had 
fallen was one that he remembered as that of another years 
ago, and the resemblance of the living woman to the dead 
struck him anew and stirred his heart with memories 
sweet, if painful too. He forgot all his fears and sus- 
picions which had been proved so well founded; he forgot 
everything save that the features and actions of his old love 
were reproduced, and that he could almost fancy she was 
with him now. Ah, if she only were ! 

Would he doubt her and disbelieve as he had before? He 
thought not; and yet even in his thoughts he did not feel 
quite sure of himself. He felt that he was breaking up, 
and that in a year or two all this turmoil would be at an 
end. At his age nothing need matter much. What a fool 
he was to care! 

“ Shall I fetch you a cup of tea?” asked Mrs. Priolo, 
breaking into his reverie. 

“ Ellen will bring it to me to-day — wonT you, child?” 

She sprung up eagerly to do his bidding, but Mrs. Pri- 
olo blocked the door- way and prevented her from going out. 

“ You have forgotten,” she said, meaningly. “ It is I 
who prepare everything for Mr. Bowyer now.” 

Ellen flushed up and hesitated, but the invalid enforced 
his wish with a testiness which neither could disregard, t 


HEE OWN SISTEK. 


173 


Mrs. Priolo sat apart and watched the girFs prepara- 
tions in stolid quietude, declining the tea that was offered 
to her with a hastiness that Ellen felt to be insulting, al- 
though she would not appear to notice it. Mr. Bowyer's 
cup and saucer were placed on a small table beside him. 

Ellen resumed her seat, and began to talk of a book that 
they had been lately reading; but Mr. Bowyer's answers 
were strangely brief, and not always to the point. His 
resolution was wavering — indeed- had entirely given way. 

. Again and again he told himself that it was more than im- 
probable that a second attempt would be made on his life 
so soon, and in such circumstances, yet he could not bring 
Eimself to drink what she had given him. It might be 
senile weakness, it might be absolute failing of the facul- 
ties; but he could not battle with the feeling, nor could he 
hope that it would remain unnoticed. 

Mrs. Priolo *s keen eyes took in the situation at a glance, 
and a grim smile of satisfaction overspread her thin ill- 
tempered face; but Elaine was slower to discover how 
things were. 

It was getting dark and past the usual time for bringing 
in the lamps when she rose to put the tea-things by. She 
was taking Mr. Bowyer^s cup with the rest, when suddenly 
she discovered that it was untasted — untouched even. 

6t Why,” she began, then suddenly stopped. 

It came upon her in a moment, with a terrible stunning 
force, what it all meant; and, utterly despairing, incapa- 
ble of self-defense or even indignation, she stood there pow- 
erless and speechless. 

Then Jane entered with the lights, and the spell was 
broken. Hastily putting down the cup, which half uncon- 
sciously she held still, she escaped from the room, and did 
not appear again that night. 


174 


HER OWH SISTER* 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Various motives had kept Severn from the Dower 
House during the fortnight which had elapsed since Mr. 
Bowyer's misadventure. For one thing, he thought vis- 
itors would be unwelcome in the present strained relations 
of its inmates; for another, he was busy trying to discover 
who was at the bottom of that strange mistake — for he 
could not believe at first that what had been done had been 
done with murderous intent. Besides this, he knew that it 
would be unwise on his own account to see more of Elaine 
than was absolutely necessary; he could no longer trust 
himself to keep silent — indeed he had been perilously near 
self-betrayal at their last meeting. 

Knowing that his own inexperience might injure rather 
than serve her interest, he had telegraphed for professional 
aid, and a very smart detective was sent down in answer to 
the summons. He set to work at once, but it was only 
after several false scents that at last a report was submit- 
ted to the colonel which showed that he was on the right 
track. 

Colonel Severn sat down at once to impart the cheering 
news to Elaine. Of her illness he had heard nothing, or 
no thought as to what was expedient could have kept him 
away; yet, though he did not know all, he could guess 
something of what she had had to endure, and the letter he 
wrote was full of sympathy implied rather than expressed. 
Some intuitive presentiment of what was even then occur- 
ring prompted him to add a postscript — 

‘ ‘ On no account take any decisive step without inform- 
ing me. I know your position must be a very painful one; 
but bear it only a little longer. Do not, I implore you, be 


HER OWN SISTER. 


175 


tempted a second time to run away from your difficulties, 
for I am confident that in a very short time all will be 
cleared up.” 

The letter fulfilled its intention, consoling and strength- 
ening her to whom it was addressed. It came when 
Elaine's courage was at a very low ebb indeed, and very 
little would have tempted her to give up the unequal battle 
in which she had engaged, though on her side it had been 
mere endurance rather than actual fighting done. But now 
she felt as though it would be unjust to Colonel Severn 
were she not to await the issue of his attempt to help her, 
and it would be cutting herself adrift from him perhaps 
forever. This last argument had more influence with her 
than she knew. It enabled her to bear the insults that Mrs. 
Priolo heaped upon her continuously with a dignity and 
patience that drove her tormentor nearly frantic, she be- 
lieving that it arose from a determined resolution to hold 
her own in the hope that she might ultimately triumph, 
and it helped her to face Mr. Bowyer again after after that 
episode of the cup of tea which had hurt and angered her 
so sorely. Though indignant, she felt sorry for him too, 
understanding the struggle that was going on between his 
inclination and what he believed to be his duty; and she 
could not but admire the strength of will which showed up 
the more plainly in contrast with his physical and mental 
weakness. 

Then something else occurred which, as one nail drives 
out another, made her forget the cause she already had to 
feel aggrieved. 

Mr. Bowyer had been writing several letters lately to his 
bankers and to a legal firm that Colonel Severn had rec- 
ommended to him some time before; therefore, when one 
morning a fly drove up to the door and a gentleman alight- 
ed, followed by a young man in plain black clothes who 
carried a mysterious-looking blue bag, Mrs. Priolo felt no 


176 


HER OWN SISTER. 


doubt concerning who they were and on what business they 
had come. 

They remained closeted with the invalid for fcome time ; 
then a servant was summoned from down-stairs to affix her 
signature to a document that she had no hesitation in pro- 
nouncing to be a will. 

The housekeeper was in a- state of almost unbearable 
suspense. Guessing some decisive step had been taken, 
probably to her disadvantage, she could scarcely contain 
herself, and paced the kitchen like a caged lioness, longing 
to know what had been done. Had he left her all? The 
woman's face was working with excitement, her bead-like 
eyes were shining, and her lips quivered, so that once or 
twice, when she was appealed to by the servants, she was 
not able to reply. 

A bell rang, and J ane ran up to answer it, coming down 
presently with the startling intelligence that Mrs. Priolo 
and Miss Warde were both requested to join the gentlemen 
in the sitting-room. 

Mrs. Priolo went up at once. To her surprise, the law- 
yer was waiting there alone. He rose somewhat slowly as 
she entered, not knowing quite to what class she belonged; 
but, as the next moment the door reopened and Elaine 
came in, he sprung forward with alacrity, and offered her 
a chair. 

She accepted it with one of her sweet fleeting smiles, and 
looked up questioningly, as though to ask the meaning of 
this summons. In her own mind she was convinced that 
she was to be informed of Mr. Bowyer's intention to erase 
her name from his will, and was rejoiced that a way had 
been discovered by which she could still remain in the only 
house which seemed open to her without loss of dignity or 
self-respect. If once all motive for treachery were re- 
moved, surely he would learn to trust and love her again ! 

The lawyer looked from one to the other, trying to solve 
the problem of the strange task with which he had been 


HER OWN SISTER. 


177 


intrusted. Since he had seen Elaine it seemed harder than 
ever to perform, and he glanced at her apologetically and 
hemmed and hawed- repeatedly before he began. 

44 It is Mr. Bowyer's wish that I should inforni you of 
— of something he has done this morning. You will, I 
hope, do me the justice to remember that I am acting 
under instructions — only under instructions.” 

44 Whatever it may be, we shall not blame you,” Elaine 
assured him, in her low, clear tones. 

Mrs. Priolo looked at him with ilbrepressed eagerness, as 
though ready to tear from his lips the news that he had to 
tell. She might have reminded any one of a vulture hover- 
ing over a dying man, hardly waiting for the breath to 
leave his body — so impatient for its ghastly meal. 

The lawyer went on, nervously — 

44 1 am not in any way responsible for it, believe me. I 
may think that my client is wrong, misguided, unjust even; 
but I have no power to enforce my opinion. Mr. Bowyer 
is unwell, his nerves seem utterly unstrung, and — ” 

“ We understand all that,” interposed the housekeeper, 
brusquely. 

44 Then I will proceed at once to business. Mr. Bowyer 
made a will some months ago, leaving half his fortune to 
Mrs. Martha Priolo, his sister-in-law, and half to Miss 
Ellen Warde— no relative, I believe, but adopted by him 
about two years ago. ” Pausing a moment to see if his 
last statement were correct, he continued, with a stiff pro- 
fessional gravity that he felt to be his best refuge from the 
unpleasantness of the situation— 44 This morning he has 
made a codicil to that will, not revoking it, but making its 
administration subject to a certain provision — a provision 
so strange, so unaccountable, that I am at a loss how best 
to put it into words, though I must remind you again that 
I am a mere machine in the matter.” 

44 Had you not better tell us straight out what it is? — 
then perhaps we can enlighteq you as to its meaning,” 


178 


HER OWN SISTER. 


suggested Elaine; while Mrs. Priolo' s eyes were still fixed 
with wild intensity on his face. 

“ The money is forfeited by both, and goes to different 
charities — I will name them, if you wish — should Mr. Bow- 
yer not die a natural death. It is utterly absurd of course 
— a monomania, I should say; but you understand I am 
bound to repeat to you the terms of the will, according to 
my client's desire." 

He laughed deprecatingly, but the laugh died away when 
no responsive amusement greeted his remarks; only an un- 
comfortable silence reigned. 

Looking up with startled surprise, his gaze first en- 
countered Mrs. Priolo, and so crest-fallen was her mien and 
so evil the expression of her face that he felt, with a man's 
unreasonable prejudice against an ugly woman, that his 
client's madness was not without method after all — that 
this woman might be capable of any villainy. 

Then his. eyes rested on Ellen Warde. She was very 
pale — paler than her wont — while her downcast eyes and 
troubled trembling mouth spoke plainly of the pain that 
she felt. J ust such a look of woe and resignation had he 
seen in pictures of martyred saints; and all his sympathy 
was roused on her behalf. 

“Iam more grieved than I can say to be the bearer of 
such a message. No one could imagine for a moment that 
any aspersion was cast on you," he protested earnestly, 
but shrunk back appalled as, with a stifled cry, she rose 
and passed him to leave the room. 

“ Your imagination is not a very vivid one, I am 
afraid," said Mrs. Priolo, sharply. 

Quick enough to discover that his impression of her was 
not a favorable one, and bitterly disappointed that all her 
scheming should so far have come to naught, she deter- 
mined at least to vent her malice; and, as the lawyer 
stared at her in amazement, she added, viciously — 

“You are not aware that Mr. Bowyer's life was at- 


HER OWH SISTER. 


179 


tempted only a fortnight ago; and, even if you did know, 
it would probably be difficult to persuade you that the 
young lady who has just left the room could have any- 
thing to do with it.” 

4 4 It is impossible— impossible!” he asserted. 

44 Because she has a pretty face? Bah!” 

44 Because she is so gentle and refined.” 

44 And you actually think that wicked people go about 
with their wickedness apparent to every one whom they 
meet?” — with a fine accent of scorn. 44 Villainy would 
be a very unprofitable business if that were so.” 

44 True.” Then presently, as a new objection present- 
ed itself, he asked, with an air of wonderment that was 
very real, 44 Why on earth, if this be so, does Mr. Bowyer 
still keep her in his house, and leave her half his fortune, 
even with such a condition attached?” 

44 He thinks it is his duty to maintain her, having once 
adopted her. He is ill and shaken, scarcely responsible 
for his actions, and requires some one to show him what 
he ought to do. ” 

She looked into his face to see if she could glean any 
comfort from* it, but it was impassible, and gave no sign 
of any feeling whatever. 

His pride was hurt to think that he had been so deceived 
by a fair exterior, and he was disappointed too from a 
higher motive. Lawyer though he was, and versed in the 
ways of the world, a vein of romance ran side by side with 
his sterner notions, and he could not think with equanim- 
ity of so young a girl being deeply imbued with vice. 
What an upside-down sort of life it was after all, and how 
slow a man should be to judge the actions of his fellows! 
The man he had put down as a monomaniac, an invalid 
broken in mind as well as body, was in fact a Don Quixote 
of chivalry; and the girl he had thought of as a martyred 
saint was actually — 


180 


HER OWH SISTER. 


He broke off suddenly in his thoughts with a muttered 
exclamation. 

“Will you tell him that he is mad to dream of such a 
thing ?” begged Mrs. Priolo anxiously. 

“Madame,” he returned, gravely, “I shall not pre- 
sume to interfere with Mr. BowyePs intentions. There is 
a wisdom beyond the wisdom of the serpent, which you 
and I have yet to learn.” 

Passing the astonished housekeeper with a formal bow, 
he too quitted the room, and she was left alone to brood 
over her disappointed hopes. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

Mr. Bowyer, cowering over the fire in his bedroom, 
half proud and half ashamed of his scheme for self-protec- 
tion, was waiting anxiously to hear what effect it had had 
upon the two most concerned. He had instructed his 
lawyer to come to him directly the interview was over; 
therefore, when a knock came at the door, he gave per- 
mission to enter with some little alacrity. But he shrunk 
back into his easy-chair, and would have been only too 
glad to escape altogether, when he saw that it was his 
ward, come probably to upbraid him. 

“ What — what do you want?” he asked, in evident per- 
turbation, for there was nothing he so dreaded as a 
“scene.” If he had reflected for a moment, he might 
have guessed that Elaine was the last person in the world 
to inflict it on him. 

“ May I speak to you a moment?” she said, quietly. 

“Iam at your disposal, of course ” — with some acri- 
mony, feeling that she had given him no choice in the 
matter. 

“We have just been informed of your intention of leav- 
ing your fortune in two equal parts, one of which is to 
come to me.” 


HER OWH SISTER. 


181 


ee Under certain conditions — under certain conditions.” 

e< That was fully explained,” she answered, sadly. 

“ Very naturally you may have taken exception to the 
terms of the codicil; but try to look at it for a moment 
from my point of view, Elaine. ” 

“ I have looked at it from every conceivable point of 
view.” 

“ Remember the circumstances in which I adopted you, 
and that I consider myself answerable for your future fate. 
And, Elaine, make some allowance for my broken health, 
and — and the experience I have passed through lately. 
There are so few weapons I can wield. What else was I to 
do? To shield you is my duty, but must I not also pro- 
tect myself?” 

“ I am not blaming you. I have never blamed you.” 

“ But you look at me with those large sorrowful eyes of 
yours, and make me feel a perfect brute. I am one, I be- 
lieve. ” 

“ You are all goodness. You have been far kinder to 
me than I deserve or wish. It is that of which I must 
complain. ” 

“ Eh? What? What?” — looking up at her in quick 
surprise. 

Reproaches and recriminations he had expected; but 
apparently she intended neither. Had she merely come to 
thank him for not depriving her of the wealth that she 
felt she ought to forfeit? A hard look came into his face; 
he could scarcely repress a sneer. Women were all the 
same; they would kiss the very dust off a rich man’s boots, 
and no insults or contumely could rouse them to retalia- 
tion or even wrath. 

Elaine, hardly noticing his mood, went on calmly — 

“ I have accepted your kindness freely as I believe it 
was offered; the shelter you gave me nearly two years ago 
has become to me a home. It is my only home; and no 
one else would be kind to me but you.” 


182 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“Is that all you came to say?” — in an embarrassed 
tone. 

“ No. I want to tell you that I can no longer accept 
that kindness, and must seek another home, unless — ” 

“ Unless I cancel the codicil of my will?” 

She shook her head impatiently. 

“ You have a right to make what provisions you think 
best — you have a right to do what you please with your 
own; but money should go as a blessing, not as a curse. 
It is a cruel gift, if an unwelcome one. ” 

“ What do you mean?” 

“ I want you to erase my name from your will absolute- 
ly and forever.” 

He stared at her in undisguised amazement. Was this 
acting or reality? He was so prone to suspect the worst 
of any one, and circumstances seemed to encourage rather 
than discountenance caution. Yet something in her atti- 
tude impressed him against his will. 

“ That is a strange request. Why do you urge it?” 

“ Because it is only so that I can remain with you at all. 
The gratitude and love I owe you prevent my resenting 
any unjust suspicion you may harbor, the good you have 
done me far outbalancing the evil: but don’t you under- 
stand that such patience is incompatible with dignity and 
self-respect if in the end I am to gain by it?” 

“ You think I am bribing you to be good?” — with a 
bitter smile. 

“Iam sure you mean to be generous and just; but, be- 
lieve me, you will serve me best by doing as I say.” 

“ And if I refuse?” 

“ Then I shall leave your house at once. A very strong- 
minded woman might be able to scorn the imputation of 
interested motives, and not care about being thought poor- 
spirited if she knew she was doing right; but I am not 
strong-minded.” 

Mr. Bowyer looked thoughtfully into the fire, and pon- 


HER OWN SISTER. 


183 


dered the matter for fully five minutes without speaking. 
Once or twice he glanced furtively at the girl who stood 
there so patiently awaiting his decision* and his heart soft- 
ened toward her as it always did soften when exposed to a 
good influence. Should he do as she suggested? Even to 
himself it seemed cruel and insulting to leave her money 
coupled with such a condition; and yet he dared not throw 
her penniless upon the world — it would be too heavy a re- 
sponsibility for him to bear even in the grave. And then, 
as he had reminded her, that condition was his only protec- 
tion against another such attempt upon his life. 

Presently he asked her, not looking into her face — 

“ Can you throw any light upon — upon that painful 
business — the arsenic, you know?” 

“ I know nothing about it beyond the mere fact that I 
saw Mrs. Priolo place it quite out of the way in the morn- 
ing, and that in the afternoon I took the milk and tea and 
sugar from the usual places.” 

For a minute or two he waited, listening eagerly for 
some protestation of innocence, strongly inclined to believe 
in it were it forthcoming, though his mood might change 
when pressure was again brought to bear upon him. Per- 
haps Elaine guessed that, even were she to convince him, 
it would have merely a transitory effect; or perhaps her 
former unhappy experience had warned her of the futility 
of any protestation without proof. At any rate she re- 
mained mute. 

“ Suppose I alter or entirely remove that codicil?” said 
Mr. Bowyer, hesitatingly. “ The lawyer has not left the 
house; and, after all, I had no right to let a morbid fear 
of mine destroy another's peace . 99 

She drew a little nearer to him, understanding the effort 
it would be on his part to throw down the defense that he 
had erected. Though he had misjudged and doubted her 
so long, she had never ceased to love and thank him for 


184 


HER OWH SISTER. 


his past kindness, and was more likely to exaggerate his 
real goodness of heart than underrate it. 

“That would not do at all,” she objected, gently. 
“ In no circumstances that seem possible at present could 
I accept any money from you beyond what is necessary 
while living as I do beneath your roof. 99 

“ Is it that you are offended — aggrieved at the wording 
of the codicil?” 

“No; I don't think it is that. To say a thing or think 
a thing, it is all the same; and, as you say, you are bound 
to protect yourself. ” 

He winced a little, detecting the slight inflection of con- 
tempt in her tone, and touched too by its deep sadness. 
If indeed she was guiltless, at least of this crime against 
himself, then he had been more cruel to her than any foe, 
and had almost better have remained quiescent on that day 
when he interfered to change her fate. If he could only 
again become opinionated and self-confident as he used to 
be! It were better surely to hold firmly to a wrong idea 
than thus waver between two opinions and gain no satis- 
faction from either. If she was innocent, then he had in- 
jured her beyond reparation, beyond forgiveness; while, if 
his suspicions were well founded, then, he was an arrant 
fool to be impressed by a clever impersonation of injured 
innocence, and to feel so uncomfortable — even guilty — in 
her presence. 

“ I will think it over and let you know. I am not sure 
whether I have the right to leave you utterly unprovided 
for — destitute, in fact . 99 

“ If I do not complain, surely no one else has the right 
to do so . 99 

“ Well, I will see — I will see. If you meet Mr. Levi- 
son, will you ask him to come to me for a moment?” 

She bowed her head in assent, and was leaving the room, 
when a sudden thought struck her, and she turned round 
again and addressed liinv 


HER OWH SISTER. 


185 


“ Remember,” she said, impressively, 4 4 that if, in op- 
position to my wish, you leave me any money, either 
directly or indirectly, you can not force me to accept it. I 
should simply disappear, and the money would lie idle 
until it lapsed or reverted to the Crown. I don't know 
what is the technical expression." 

44 That is a very fair imitation of it." 

44 And," she went on, 44 remember that to serve you so 
without hope or expectation of reward is the only way in 
which I can assure you of my gratitude and rewin your 
love — your confidence. Give me at least a chance. " 

He kept his face averted to hide a moisture which had 
risen to his eyes at the pathos and yearning in her voice. 
When he turned again, she was gone, and the door drawn 
to behind her. 

The tears were in her eyes too, and her mouth still trem- 
bled, as, going round the corner of the stairs, she encount- 
ered the lawyer coming up. 

He stood on one side to let her pass. 

44 Mr. Bowyer wishes to speak to you," she said. 

44 You have been with him?" 

44 Yes." A sudden impulse moved her to confide in 
him and seek his aid. He could help her if he would, and 
she was so sorely in need of help. 44 1 have been asking 
him to leave my name out of his will altogether," she 
said, speaking very rapidly to conceal the tremor in her 
voice. 44 1 do not want his money; and — will you try to 
persuade him that it would be bestowed more judiciously 
and received more gratefully elsewhere?" 

44 1 am so utterly in the dark in this matter that I fear 
my advice would have little or no weight." 

44 Still you must have guessed something of the truth. 
Mr. Bowyer suspects me of having tried to poison him, 
and, in spite of that, thinks it right to leave me half his 
fortune. " 

44 Heaping coals of fire upon your head, in fact." 


186 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ Oh, no, no! He does not dream of that. He is good- 
ness itself; but he will not understand that I take nothing 
from him while he considers me capable of such baseness, 
such an outrageous crime. " 

“No one could believe it of you. It is too ridiculous, 
too monstrous. ” 

She looked up at him gratefully, still seeing everything 
through a mist of tears. 

“ It is kind of you to think well of me; but Mr. Bowyer 
has some cause for suspicion. I^do not blame him, for he 
has been the kindest of friends to me; and there is some- 
thing truly noble in the way in which he persists in being 
good to me and forgiving me, although believing me to be 
unworthy. * 9 

Mr. Levison, studying her with an intent expression in 
his dark keen eyes, and crediting unhesitatingly what she 
said, thought that her character too was not devoid of 
nobility and generosity. He felt remorseful now that he 
had listened even for a moment to the housekeeper's mali- 
cious words; truth and ingenuousness were written so 
plainly on her face, he ought not to have doubted for a 
moment. 

“Yet, as you are innocent, why should you hesitate to 
take the money to which you certainly have some claim? 
Why should you suffer through a mistaken idea that would, 
I am confident, have never arisen if Mr. Bowyer had been 
in perfect health?" 

He spoke with persuasive earnestness. It aroused his 
indignation that this girl should deny herself to enrich 
that objectionable woman whom he had just left, or some 
charity in which she had no concern. 

Elaine smiled sadly and shook her head. 

“ I do not care for money. It is no deprivation to me 
at all. Never having possessed a fortune, I shall never 
miss it . 99 

“ 1 must remind you however that, putting luxuries out 


HER OTVH SISTER. 187 

of the question, there is a great difference between the 
comfort you enjoy at present and absolute penury. ” 

“ I dare say,” she returned, indifferently; “ but I am 
not afraid of being poor. That — as things are now — 
seems a minor evil.” 

“ But things, I hope, will not always be as they are 
now; and. Miss Warde, will you remember that I will do 
anything I can for you? If you want me, telegraph at 
any time, and 1 will come at once to right the wrong that 
is being done you now. ’** 

She looked up at him gratefully, her heart too full for 
speech, then passed on her way down-stairs, while the law- 
yer proceeded to Mr. Bowyer’s room. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

It was Sunday afternoon, and throughout the house 
reigned that strange stillness which is suggestive of and 
inseparable from the day. The servants had walked over 
to Greathaven to church, and no one was in the kitchen 
except Mrs. Priolo, who dozed before the fire, where she 
had placed herself to watch the water boil for Mr. Bow- 
yer’s tea. Life seemed very pleasant to the housekeeper 
just then. All her schemes had succeeded, and she could 
look forward with complacency to a prosperous future, as 
mistress of her employer’s fortune at his death. For Mr. 
Bowyer had assented to Elaine’s proposition; a new will 
was made, in which Mrs. Priolo was nominated sole lega- 
tee. So she dozed and dreamed by the fire in a happy 
security which she had no idea could ever be assailed. A 
ring at the front door half roused her; but not till it was 
repeated did she remember that the servants were out and 
she must answer it. Then, getting up hastily, she ran up- 
stairs. 

It was Colonel Severn; and with a bland smile she was 


188 


HEB OWN SISTEB. 


ushering him into the sitting-room, when he stopped her 
peremptorily. 

“It is you I wish to see. Where can I speak to you 
undisturbed?” 

A little startled, yet too secure in her own mind to be 
actually alarmed, she led the colonel to the kitchen, the 
fire being out in her own room. 

44 Well, sir, what can I do for you?” she asked, some- 
what defiantly, having dusted a chair and placed it for 
him. 

Taking no notice of her question, he entered at once 
upon the subject that he had come to discuss. 

44 Some time ago — nearly three weeks ago, I suppose — 
Mr. Bowyer accidentally took some poison that must, it was 
imagined, have been given him in a cup of tea that he 
drank that afternoon.” 

44 Made and given by Miss Ellen Warde,” put in the 
housekeeper, quickly. 

44 So far you are correct; but one fact you have withheld 
— that the poison was placed in the sugar-basin by you, 
and that consequently it was not Miss Warde, but you who 
were responsible for what occurred. ” 

The woman had turned ashy white, and clutched the 
table for support, yet, overcome as she was, she made a 
desperate effort to defend herself. 

44 It is false — false, I tell you!” she gasped, convul- 
sively. 

44 It is true — perfectly true — and you know it!” he re- 
torted, calmly. 44 Shall I go on?” 

44 You can say what you choose; I have no one to pro- 
tect me, or you would not dare to attack me so. Am I to 
be made the scapegoat for Ellen Wardens sins?” 

44 Keep Miss Wardens name from your lips, if you 
please, or I will not answer for my patience. It is useless 
to deny anything I say. You have proofs to fight against 
— not mere idle accusation. When Mr. Bowyer was so ill 


HER OWN SISTER. 


189 


that you supposed him dying, you gave him a tumbler of 
what you asserted to be hot brandy and water; but the 
cook noticed that there was no smell of spirits, and tasted 
what was left. It was merely hot water and salt, which 
you gave him as an emetic/ , 

“ It saved his life ” — doggedly. 

“At that time no one knew that he was poisoned, so 
that your acting on that knowledge alone would damn you 
in any court of justice.” 

“ It was because I suspected her.” 

“Hush!” — sternly. “ Such prevarications and denials 
do no good; they only injure you. Further, you were seen 
immediately afterward to go and empty the contents of the 
sugar-basin and put fresh sugar in it. Are you satisfied 
now that I know all? A detective has been here ever 
since, and, connecting several incidents, each insignificant 
in itself, but incontrovertible when taken with the rest, has 
the whole chain of evidence against you complete. He is 
here now to act on any instructions that Mr. Bowyer may 
give him.” 

The woman fell upon her knees with a sob, and covered 
her face with her dress, fighting no longer against what 
she felt to be stronger than any defense she could invent. 

“ On my honor, sir, I never meant to do him any harm 
— I swear it!” she protested. “ I only wanted to frighten 
him, to — to — ” 

“ To throw suspicion on to Miss Warde. I know that 
too. That in itself is a criminal offense. ” 

“Forgive me — forgive me! I never thought — never 
realized what I was doing. IT1 never lift finger against 
her again. Fll beg her pardon on my knees; Fll do any- 
thing you tell me — promise anything — sign anything — if 
you will only let me off. ” 

“ It is not for me to judge you; it is Mr. Bowyer who 
will decide whether you deserve forgiveness or not. ” 

“ You will not tell him?” — in a tone of agonized alarm. 


190 


HER OWN SISTER. 


c< How can I do otherwise? Can I let Miss Warde re- 
main under the suspicion of having attempted murder?” 

“ Hot murder — oh, good heavens, not murder! You 
don't really believe I meant that?" — horror unmistakably 
stamped on her face. 

“ Ho, I do not believe it — not because you assert your 
innocence so loudly, but because I happen to be aware of 
the conversation between you and the chemist of whom 
you purchased the poison. Shall I repeat it to you?" 

She gazed at him in speecliless, hopeless amazement; 
and he went on remorselessly, feeling that every blow he 
struck was only avenging a slight part of the pain she had 
caused to the woman he loved. 

“ You said you had a horror of poison, and, under cover 
of this pretense, found out from him exactly how much it 
would take to kill a man and how much merely to make 
him ill; but, in your excess of caution, you neglected to 
elicit from him the information that a much less quantity 
can be taken with impunity by a sick person than one in 
full health and strength. Of being a murderess in intent 
I do not accuse you; but you very nearly made yourself 
liable to a charge of manslaughter. " 

Alarmed by the gravity of his manner as much as by his 
words, Mrs. Priolo could not restrain a shrill scream. Ut- 
terly broken down now, and at his mercy, she was rocking 
herself backward and forward in the chair into which she 
had fallen, incapable of thought or resistance to his will. 

The sound arrested the attention of Ellen Warde, who 
happened to be on the higher flight of stairs almost exactly 
above the open kitchen-door. She thought some one was 
hurt, and ran down at once to see; but she started back in 
such uncontrollable surprise, as she saw the colonel stand- 
ing there in an attitude of denunciation and Mrs. Priolo in 
tears, that the former stepped forward quickly to explain. 

“We have solved the mystery of the arsenic more fully 
and circumstantially that I had ever hoped. This wretched 


HER OWN SISTER. 


191 


woman placed the poison in the #ugar-basin with the de- 
liberate intention of throwing the guilt upon you. ” 

Ellen looked from one to the other in breathless agita- 
tion, and could not speak at once — her surprise was too in- 
tense, her relief too great. Her delight at being exonera- 
ted for the time overwhelmed the feeling of disgusted 
horror which Severn had expected her to display toward 
the woman who had acted so wicked and treacherous a 
part. Presantly she said — 

“ Does Mr. Bowyer know? Have you told him?” 

“ No; but I will do so now.” 

The housekeeper jumped up and caught hold of Ellen's 
soft black gown. 

“ If he does, I will tell all I know!” she hissed out 
spitefully, as a last desperate chance of escape. 

Severn did not hear the threat, it having been uttered in 
a whisper, and was at the door — almost on the threshold — 
when a slight touch upon his sleeve brought him back at 
once. 

“ What is it?” he asked, gently. 

“Must you — is it absolutely necessary to let Mr. Bow- 
yer know what she has done?” 

“ I could not do otherwise; it is due to him and, what is 
more, to yourself.” 

“ But if I waive my right?” — looking earnestly into his 
face. 

“ Why should you spare her? Has she ever spared 
you?” 

She turned away her head, ashamed to meet the look of 
loving admiration that he had cast upon her. 

“ It is not that; it is not from any feeling of magnanim- 
ity or mercy,” she murmured, in a low abashed voice. 

“ Then what is it?" 

“ From fear. She can injure me — oh, more fatally 
than you can imagine possible! — if she is driven to desper- 
ation. ” 


HER OWN SISTER. 


192 

“ But surely you don't wish her to go scot-free, so that 
if she chooses she may be at liberty to continue her cruel 
schemes against you!" 

“ Is there no middle course?" 

“ None that I can see. You are upset now, naturally, 
and incapable of judging for yourself — let me judge for 
you. Nothing that she could bring against you could be 
so terrible as the suspicion of having tried to poison your 
best friend, your benefactor." 

She shrunk back, silenced. She felt that she could no 
longer struggle against the inevitable. Things must take 
their course, unbelped and unhindered by her interference. 
Yet — Heaven help her! — how should she face her lover 
when he had heard all that Mrs. Priolo could tell? 

The housekeeper had been hanging anxiously on every 
word in their low-toned conversation. Her fate as well as 
Elaine's was trembling in the balance — they would stand 
or fall together; it would almost console her for her own 
loss if this girl were seen at last in her true colors. For a 
moment she wavered, half meaning to let matters remain 
as they were; but finally greed of wealth conquered malice, 
and she determined to make one more effort not to let slip 
the fortune which was almost in her grasp. If Ellen were 
exonerated and she not implicated, she would still have 
half Mr. Bowyer's money and be no worse off than she had 
hoped to be a little time ago; and — who knew? — he might 
delay, and die before another will was made. 

She held up her head and stood upright again, feeling 
that, with Ellen Warde to back her up, she might dictate 
her own terms. 

“ There is a middle course. Miss Warde shall be ex- 
onerated completely if you will let me do it in my own 
way; and I promise I will never try to injure her again." 

The colonel looked doubtfully at Elaine. The sudden 
brightening of her face showed that to her this was a wel- 


HER own SISTER. 


193 


come suggestion; so he could not indignantly oppose it, as 
he desired. 

“ How could you do that without laying the blame on 
an innocent person?” 

“I shall put it down to the carelessness of a servant, 
only now confessed. There is nothing culpable in careless- 
ness, especially when freely admitted, as I shall represent 
it to have been. I know Mr. Bowyer well enough to be sure 
that he will never allude again to a subject necessarily so 
painful — that he will not even ask me to name which of 
them it is, and that he will forgive her at once, with no 
after-feeling of resentment. As for the falsehood — that 
will be mine, not yours; and I donT suppose it will lie 
very heavy on my conscience.” 

“ Since you hold such opinions, how are we to be sure 
of your good faith in the matter; and how can I know be- 
yond all doubt that Miss Warde will be free from any an- 
noyance — any persecutions from you in the future?” 

“I will write a full confession of my action in the mat- 
ter of the arsenic, and Miss Warde shall make use of it if 
ever she has reason to complain. Secret for secret; we 
shall be quits then, and neither free to harm the other.” 

Colonel Severn looked displeased. It jarred upon him 
to hear this woman claim an equality with Elaine on such 
a score. Rather a thousand times would he have had her 
at open enmity than have won her silence on such terms. 
But a second furtive glance at Elaine decided him. He 
saw that it would be for her happiness were he to consent; 
and so, sad at heart and sorely against his will, he con- 
sented. 

Mrs. Priolo at once fetched pen, ink, and paper, and set 
about fulfilling her part of the contract, the colonel stand- 
ing over her and insisting on a full confession of the mo- 
tives that had moved her as well as an admission of the 
actual deed committed. When it was written and signed, 
7 


194 


HER OWK SISTER. 


he and Elaine witnessed it. Then he put it into his 
pocket. 

“ I will send this/' he explained to Mrs. Priolo, “ to 
Mr. Levison to-night — he is my own lawyer as well as Mr. 
Bowyer's — and I shall give him minute instructions as to 
when and under what conditions he may use it. So long 
as you do your duty to your employer and do not harass 
Miss Warde in any way, you will be as safe as though you 
had never written it. " 

The housekeeper smiled a little disdainfully, having now 
entirely recovered her self-possession, and resolved to make 
the best of an unfortunate denouement . 

“ I will not thank you for your forbearance, because 1' 
know perfectly well you would have shown me no mercy if 
it had been convenient to do so . 99 Then, suddenly return- 
ing to her ordinary tone of bland obsequiousness, she add- 
ed, “I will go now and tell my story to Mr. Bowyer; you 
may follow in about ten minutes. Miss Ellen." 

“ Do 3 ^ou think she is to be trusted?" asked Severn, 
when they were left alone. 

“ Yes, I think so. You see, it is to her interest to be 
true to her word . 99 

“ She ought to have been unhesitatingly denounced. I 
wish," he said, earnestly, “ that there was no need of con- 
cealment in your case — that you could face the matter 
boldly, and take the risk . 99 

“ It is impossible. I might have done so once, but it is 
too late now." 

“ I would stand by you — through anything," he pleaded. 

But she only shook her head in a way that showed the 
utter hopelessness of all discussion. 

A few minutes later he left; and at the expiration of the 
appointed time Elaine repaired with a beating heart to the 
sitting-room. 

She opened the door, and as she did so Mrs. Priolo 
brushed past her hastily and went out. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


195 


That she had done thoroughly what she had undertaken 
to do there was no doubt from the reception that Elaine 
received. 

Weak as he was, Mr. Bowyer rose from his chair, and 
tottered forward to meet her with outstretched arms; and 
the next moment Elaine was lying across his breast, weep- 
ing joyfully as she listened to his terms of endearment and 
the accents of self-reproach in his voice as he begged for 
her forgiveness and love. 

She was his daughter now indeed, and all the dearer for 
the estrangement that there had been between them. No 
•suspicion would ever sunder them again. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

It was a very different Elaine, radiant as well as lovely, 
with a faint rose- color in her usually pale cheeks, and noth- 
ing of the Sphinx — nothing indeed pertaining to sadness — 
about her, that stood before George Severn a week later, 
her hand outstretched in friendly greeting, her eyes smil- 
ing happily into his own. But the light faded somewhat 
from her face as he told her why he had sought her, and 
she realized how long it must be before they met again. 

It appeared that he had invested some of his savings in 
houses and mortgages on houses in India, and that now, 
it being advisable for him to realize the money and trans- 
fer it to his account at home, his presence was absolutely 
needed there, as some of the transactions were intricate. 

“ I don't want to go in the very least,’' he said, doleful- 
ly. “ Indeed my first impulse was a very unbusiness-like 
one. I felt inclined to risk the loss of half or even all the 
money, so that I might remain here in Littlehaven. " 

The attractions of the little village being so very few, 
Elaine could not but apply the meaning in his speech to 
herself; her color deepened and her eyelids fell. 

“I was so heartily sick of India before I left it, I 


196 


HER OWN SISTER. 


should, never have remained there so long had it not been 
for my son; it is for his sake I go back now. I feel that 
it is his money as much as mine which is at stake, and that 
I have no right to let it go without a struggle.” 

44 Will Mr. Severn go with your” 

The colonel shook his head. 

“He is coming here to study with his tutor. You will 
be kind to him, will you not, while he is at the Abbey? I 
should like to know that he is here, though being so near 
you will scarcely tend to cure him of that which sent him 
away before.” 

44 Familiarity may breed contempt ” — blushing brightly. 

44 Hot in your case. But he is very young, and per- 
haps, if he sees there is no hope — ” 

44 He knows that now. He is very young, as you say; 
of course he will grow wiser and forget. ” 

He looked at her keenly, trying to detect if there was 
any hidden meaning, any bitterness in her speech. If there 
was, she hid it effectually, and met his glance bravely. 

44 And you are quite happy now?" he asked, still gazing 
searchingly into her face. 

44 As happy as I shall ever be. I can’t tell you how 
good Mr. Bowyer is to me, how penitent for his doubt. I 
really believe ” — smiling — 4 4 he has gone to the opposite 
extreme, and suspects me now of being perfect.” 

Severn smiled too. If that were folly — as her manner 
seemed to infer — then he knew another fool who did not 
even desire to be cured of his foolishness. However he 
might deplore the necessity for concealment which over- 
shadowed her life, he was positive that in that forced 
secrecy there was no cause for shame. She must be bear- 
ing the burden of another’s sin, for he could not meet the 
clear gaze of her sweet gray eyes and believe that they had 
any reason to droop abashed. 

44 And Mrs. Priolo — does she keep her promise?” 

44 Most faithfully. When she is obliged to speak to me, 


HER OWN SISTER. 


197 


she does so with civility; but she avoids me as much as 
possible, and that pleases me best. " 

“ And Mr. Bowyer has never alluded to the matter of 
the arsenic again ?" 

“ Never. I can't help fancying he has guessed a little 
of the truth, for he is very stiff and reserved with Mrs. 
Priolo, and she is most subdued. It may be that he is only 
angry with her for encouraging him in his doubts of me. " 

44 She is a wicked designing woman. I scarcely like 
leaving you with her. " 

“I am quite safe," she assured him, earnestly. 44 So 
long as Mr. Bowyer lives she can not harm me; and — and, 
if he dies — 99 

It was on Severn's lips to answer her with a warm prot- 
estation of his love, and the care with which he would 
always cherish her, if only she would consent to become 
his wife; but he restrained himself by a strong effort. So 
long as Charlie loved her, and retained a hope of winning 
her at last, he could not — would not speak. 

44 I wish," he said, presently, 44 that you had some 
friend, some woman-friend, in whom you could confide, 
who could give you the help of sympathy at least. There 
is Miss Featherstone — I know you would like her if you 
knew her. If opportunity offers, will you promise me to 
make her acquaintance?" 

The promise was somewhat reluctantly given. She had 
her own reasons for not wishing to have any friends; but 
how could she refuse him anything he asked her now when 
he was going away? There was nothing else she could do 
to prove her gratitude for all his kindness, and the practi- 
cal aid that had given such a new and happy turn to the 
circumstances of her life. 

How long and dreary the days would be while he was 
away! To do anything to please him would lighten them 
a little; yet it seemed only a faint glimmer in the darkness 
that loomed ahead. 


198 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ It is time that I was going. I must say good-bye. ” 

She looked up, startled and disturbed. In the last su- 
preme moment of their parting no disguise seemed possi- 
ble; and, as her eyes met his, each read in the other’s the 
whole truth. Such a yearning, grieving expression crossed 
her face that it required almost superhuman resolution on 
Severn’s part not to take her in his arms and console her 
with a promise of a happier future. Never had she looked 
so beautiful as now, with the love-light in her eyes half 
drowned by the overwhelming sorrow; the sweet tremulous 
mouth curved downward in distress, showing berry-red 
against the pallor that spread slowly from brow to chin as 
her emotion grew. 

He made a half -involuntary move forward, then stopped 
as suddenly, while she stood waiting. It was the hardest 
task he had ever set himself, during a long self-sacrificing 
life, to watch the half -expectant look fade away gradually, 
and see it replaced by a proud shyness, as, recalled to her- 
self by the very sharpness of the pang, she understood that 
they were to be to each other friends as formerly, but, ah, 
no more! She gave him her hand with an expression of 
regret which, though exactly suited to the occasion, be- 
trayed nothing of the agony of her despair. 

“We shall miss you very much,” she said, gravely. 

It was impossible to pretend indifference; it would have 
gone against her nature, being in no way coquettish, even 
the innocent gayety of girlhood having disappeared forever 
when her sister died. 

All that terrible time was recalled vividly to her now; 
and she wondered at herself for forgetting and having 
been led away by the will-o’-the-wisp Hope, though only 
for a moment. It was far better as it was; for, had the 
choice been left to her, she might not have been able to 
summon strength to do the right. Surely it was happi- 
ness enough for her to. know that she was loved by the one 
man in the world whose love she could have prized! 


REE OWK SISTER. 


199 


Almost simultaneously they said “ Good-bye." 

A cold piercing wind was whistling through the trees, 
and blew down a shower of leaves wet with the rain of the 
previous night. One fell against Elaine's cheek, and 
struck her with a keen sense of chilliness. It seemed to 
her then as though she had been growing colder and colder 
all the while, and that the culminating point was reached 
only then, as Severn turned abruptly and strode away, 
while she was left alone, with the hand that he had dropped 
clasped tightly in the other, and his word of farewell 
sounding mournfully in her ears. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Eight or nine months passed with little or no change in 
the village of Littlehaven. At the Dower House matters 
were exactly as they had been before Mrs. Priolo's machi- 
nations wrought such distressful excitement. Mr. Bowyer 
was perhaps a little stronger and not quite so nervous 
since the folly of his suspicion of Elaine had been shown 
to him so clearly. His ward was more to him than ever — 
he could scarcely bear her to be out of his sight; and his 
sister-in-law was relegated to her old place as housekeeper, 
she never venturing to remind him of the connection that 
she could also claim. 

Mrs. Priolo was in reality a clever woman, though she 
herself had begun to doubt it after the failure of her 
schemes. She was always ready to accept the inevitable 
with a good grace; and, angry as she was at her own im- 
prudence in going so far as she had done in the matter of 
the arsenic, when with words and looks she might have 
won her cause without risk of detection, she still managed 
to appear resigned to her present position. 

“Secret for 'secret," she had said to Elaine that day 
when her duplicity was discovered; but she knew well that 
the value of each was not equal. The confession she had 


200 


HER OWtf SISTER. 


made and signed would be of no use against her when once 
Mr. Bowyer was dead; while only after that event could 
she use her knowledge of the Sydney tragedy with good 
effect, either to satisfy her revenge or sell her silence, if 
that should prove the more profitable course. At present 
she was content and more hopeful than might have been 
expected. 

Mr. Bowyer had not destroyed his former will in which 
she was named as sole heiress. He meant to do so at the 
earliest opportunity; but, with the usual procrastination in 
such matters, the natural reluctance to admit the need of 
hurry, he had delayed to send for the lawyer to draw up 
another, and in the meantime kept intact the former one, 
with what idea he himself could not have told. 

Though she wondered at his carelessness, Mrs. Priolo 
was not sufficiently quixotic to think it her duty to speak 
to him about it; and Elaine was the least likely person in 
the world to remind him that her interests were at stake. 
Indeed she scarcely thought about the matter, so happy 
was she in having recovered her old place in her guard- 
ian's affections. She had almost forgotten the great terror 
of her life, or only recalled it now and then as something 
very far away and rendered indistinct by distance. An- 
other sorrow seemed more real because more recent, per- 
haps because more human, more natural to her age. She 
was very young, and her youth was reasserting itself, that 
time of terrible trial during which it seemed to leave her 
altogether being gradually forgotten. When George 
Severn went, she had felt heart-broken for awhile; but she 
had the knowledge of his love to sustain her, and deep 
down in her heart was the hope that he would come back 
to her and all would be well between them in the end. 
How some of the obstacles were to be surmounted she did 
not know; but faith is sometimes stronger than reason, 
especially in a woman's heart. 

Early in the spring Charlie Severn had come to the Ab- 


HER OWN SISTER. 


201 


bey with his tutor to be coached for his examinations. At 
first he felt some shyness in going to the Dower House, 
but by and by that feeling died away as the love that had 
prompted it also died a natural death. 

Elaine was somewhat amused and somewhat sore to see 
how, when he had been at Littlehaven for about a month, 
he suddenly developed an attachment for gentle Mary 
Eeatherstone, the vicar’s daughter, and afterward was sel- 
dom far away from her side. 

At first he received little or no encouragement. The 
girl knew of his former passion, and doubted the depth of 
his feelings, which could so lightly change; nor was Elaine 
much inclined to sympathize when, in boyish fashion, he 
came and confided his ill-success to her. She could not 
forget how a year before he had protested eternal faithful- 
ness to herself and almost moved her to consent, so well 
and earnestly had he pleaded. Were all men so? She knew 
they were not, yet in her momentary bitterness felt im- 
pelled to doubt all on account of the fickleness of one. 
But the bitterness was only momentary, and on second 
thoughts she was unselfishly glad that he had recovered 
from his disappointment, and was ready to listen to any 
amount of foolish rhapsodies about his later love. 

One day he introduced them to each other, and after 
that a rapid friendship grew up between the girls, at which 
the young man felt a little aggrieved. It seemed to him 
that he was making no progress at all, and that since these 
two had known each other he was left completely in the 
cold. One day he betrayed his jealousy of her to Elaine, 
and she resolved on the first opportunity to speak to Mary, 
and see if he had any chance. 

That same afternoon the vicar’s daughter came to the 
Dower House. The two girls often visited the poor people 
in the village; and Elaine, who was in her bedroom, 
hastily put on her hat before descending, thinking they 
were to go together then. 


202 


HER OWN SISTER. 


But this was not the case, as was hastily explained. 
There was typhoid fever in the village, and Miss Feather- 
stone had come to warn Elaine against going thither until 
the doctor pronounced it once more safe. 

Mr. Bowyer was evidently terribly nervous at the news, 
and with rather suspicious eagerness asked Miss Feather- 
stne if she had been in the village lately. 

“ I have not been for several days; and there was no 
danger until yesterday. A poor woman with a baby, on 
her way to Greathaven, was taken ill and fainted on the 
road. She seemed so ill that some people took her in and 
sent for a doctor, who saw at once what was the matter. 
She died this morning; and now the child has it. ” 

“ How sad — how terribly sad!” cried Elaine. 

But Mr. Bowyer, more alive to the possible danger to 
themselves, called for Mrs. Priolo and gave her directions 
to use every precaution in the matter, which the house- 
keeper seemed only too ready to fulfill. She went away at 
once to order the servants not to go near the village on 
any pretext; and, as Mr. Bowyer seemed disinclined for 
further conversation, the two girls strolled out of doors. 

“ How sad — how unfortunate it is!” said Elaine present- 
ly, unable to forget what she had heard. This will put a 
stop to our visiting for some time, and the poor people will 
miss us, I am afraid. We could always help them a little, 
if not much; and they knew we were sorry for them — and 
even sympathy comforts a little.” 

“ I shall go as usual,” said Mary, quietly. 

“ You will go?” 

“ Of course. I am my father’s curate, you know. He 
will be amongst them always, and the risk is scarcely in- 
creased by my going too. That was really why I came to- 
day, for we may not meet again for some time — it would 
not be safe for us to meet.” 

Elaine’s blank look of disappointment betrayed some- 
thing of what she felt; and Mary understood, knowing 


HEB OWH &ISTEE. 203 

how she herself would rebel were she commanded to stand 
aside unhelpful while others suffered. 

“ You see, clear, it is so different with you,” she urged, 
gently. “ Mr. Bowyer is naturally afraid of so terrible a 
disease. Your first duty is to him. Then there would 
be the risk to the servants. ” 

Elaine nodded, but did not speak at once. 

“ I shall miss you dreadfully!” she said at last. 

“ And I you. What friends we have become, and in so 
short a time! Why would you never let me know you be- 
fore?” 

“ I had a reason — a very strong reason, you may be 
sure. I dare say I am wrong now; but I promised — ” 

She broke off shyly, but Mary completed the sentence 
for her with a smile at the other's so palpable confusion. 

*' c You promised Colonel Severn. I know he was very 
anxious we should be friends, because you were too much 
alone. When is the colonel coming back, Elaine?” 

The old assumed name had gradually fallen into disuse, 
Mr. Bowyer having insensibly reverted to the one by which 
he knew her first, while Mary Eeatherstone had never 
heard her called by any other. 

“ 1 do not know,” was the answer, given almost in a 
whisper. 

“ Somehow I fancy it will be soon. Before he went he 
was talking to me of his wish to secure every one a happy 
Christmas. Last winter he was almost a stranger here, 
and had been so long in India that he had forgotten En- 
glish customs; but this year was to be very different.” 

“ And now this sickness has come!” 

“ It will be stamped out, I hope. Every effort is being 
made to prevent the infection from spreading. " 

“ And Mary,” said Elaine, suddenly giving the conver- 
sation a new turn, “ does Charlie Severn approve of your 
going amongst these people now?” 


204 


HER OWH SISTER. 


“ What is it to him?” — tossing her head, but blushing 
in spite of her simulated disdain. 

44 You know how much. He is very fond of you, 
Mary.” 

44 This summer he has seemed so. Last summer it was 
you he found so attractive.” 

44 A boy's fancy — nothing else indeed.” 

44 Then how can I hope to be anything more? If you 
were forgotten, how could I hope to be remembered?” 

4 4 It is so different indeed! You he loves sincerely, with 
a man's deep unchanging passion. Won't you believe in 
him?” 

Mary looked up, a light — half -dawning love, half merry 
mockery — in her eyes. 

4 4 Are you so anxious to be my mother-in-law?” she said, 
audaciously, then almost in the same breath repented, as 
gradually over Elaine's pale pained face a crimson flush 
spread and deepened in intensity when the full meaning of 
the words came home to her. 

“Forgive me! I ought not to have said it. You are 
not very angry — are you?” 

Elaine shook her head and tried to smile, but without 
success. It was a subject about which she never dared to 
think, much less speak, and she could not bring herself to 
deny the charge laughingly, as another girl might have 
done. Her whole life had been too serious for her rightly 
to understand such badinage. 

44 1 should like you to be happy — happier than I can 
ever be,” she said at last; and so much was implied in her 
tones, more to be felt than comprehended, that Mary was 
sobered at once. 

They talked of other things then; but, when the even- 
ing shadows fell and it was time to part, Elaine made one 
more appeal. 

44 You won't see Mr. Severn for some time, I am afraid, 
if you are going to put yourself in quarantine, unless he 


HER OWN SISTER. 20o 

declines to regard anything of the sort/' she observed, 
thoughtfully. 

Instantly all Mary's real liking for the young fellow who 
aspired to be her lover was apparent; the tears came into 
her pretty eyes, and she looked pleadingly into her friend's 
face. 

“ Oh, Elaine, don't let him come near us on any ac- 
count! Tell him it won't be for long, and that I am not 
afraid — people who are not afraid never take infection. 
Don't — don't let him come!" 

“ Leave some nice message to keep him good and 
amenable to reason. That is the very least that you can 
do " — speaking quietly, but with insistence. 

‘ 4 Then " — desperately — “ tell him I will listen to all he 
has to say when this is over." 

Elaine stooped and kissed her on the forehead. 

“ After all," Mary went on as though excusing herself 
for having at last relented, <£ I can't blame him for loving 
you first. Who could help loving you?" — with a wistful, 
almost worshiping look at the sweet face at her side. To 
her it had always seemed as the face of an angel — some one 
set apart by a mysterious sign or seal from other women. 
Had she heard all Elaine's story, she would have known 
that it was a doubtful good to be so above feminine weak- 
ness and frivolities, as by the same token she was debarred 
from many real if simple pleasures. 

Elaine attempted no reply — none seemed to her neces- 
sary; and she was a woman who could remain silent with- 
out appearing awkward or ungracious. A moment later 
they said good-bye, and she went on alone to the house, 
thinking how much lonelier it would seem without a 
friend, now that she had once indulged in the luxury of 
having one. 

It was a luxury, but one that she had felt from the first 
she ought not to wish for, still less ever possess, for no 
pleasure she could confer would compensate for the pain 


20(5 


HER OWH SISTER. 


that might be inflicted in the future. Some day her 
identity with Elaine Warrington, the quondam actress and 
suspected murderess, might be discovered; and, if once 
again she had to stand upon her trial, she would rather 
bear it alone, with no thought of the trouble she might be 
to others to undermine her strength. It was with that idea 
that she had held aloof and refused to make friends with 
any one at first; and often still her heart reproached her 
for allowing herself to be loved, and she wept because she 
was fain to render love in return. 

Only a year before she had determined that, when Mr. 
Bowyer died, even if she were still undetected, she would 
of her own free will give herself up, and let justice take its 
course, for no actual suffering could be worse, she felt as- 
sured, than this horrible suspense; but now it appeared 
that for the sake of others she must keep silent. The 
overstrained nerves must bear their burden of anxiety un- 
til exposure was forced upon her and choice was no longer 
possible. As it was, she felt that she had no right to bring 
such shame upon those who had clasped her hand in 
friendship, being ignorant of the truth. 

It was quite dark as she reached the house — in Novem- 
ber night comes so suddenly sometimes, and it had been a 
cloudy, stormy day. 

Just as she was going in a footfall behind her caused 
her to turn round, and she saw a short figure hurrying to 
the kitchen door. A thick shawl enveloped head and 
shoulders; but Elaine guessed at once who it was. 

It was Jane, the little housemaid. Her mother lived in 
the village; and Elaine felt convinced that, impelled by 
real anxiety or perhaps from some more trivial reason, the 
girl had been to visit her, in defiance of the order given 
only that afternoon. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


207 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

By a strange unhappy chance the unfortunate woman 
who was the means of bringing typhoid to Littlehaven had 
been taken in by Jane’s mother, and, though she herself 
did not catch the fell disease, her daughter was not to 
escape the almost inevitable consequences of her stolen 
visit home. In less than a fortnight unmistakable symp- 
toms declared themselves; but, before the doctor had seen 
her, Elaine, always prompt to help when help was needed, 
had been to the sick-room, and afterward would not be 
sent away. No one else was willing to nurse the poor girl, 
and the doctor was at last fain- to consent. 

The two sides of the house were kept entirely separate, 
as Mr. Bowyer was terribly nervous, and the housekeeper 
encouraged rather than sought to calm his fears; so Elaine 
performed her self-imposed task alone and unaided. 

It was no want of care or skill that caused her non-suc- 
cess. The disease was of a most virulent type, and the 
absence of hope which is characteristic of the lower classes 
had from the first militated against the girl’s recovery. 
The doctor once declared, with somewhat natural indigna- 
tion, that she was dying because she had- not sufficient 
pluck to live. 

And so it happened that some ten days later, when the 
violence of the attack had expended itself, and nothing 
was wanted but careful nursing and the patient courage of 
endurance, Jane died, 

Elaine was terribly grieved. She had tried so hard to 
save her, and the disappointment, combined with the 
fatigue she had undergone, utterly prostrated her at first; 
but a few days’ rest restored her, and then she began to 
feel the loneliness of her position, for she was still in quar- 
antine and living her life sorely alone. 


208 


HER OWN SISTER. 


Early one morning, she was surprised to receive a sum- 
mons from Mr. Bowyer. She had taken every precaution, 
using all the disinfectants the doctor gave her with the 
greatest exactitude; but he had not yet accorded her per- 
mission to mingle with the others, and she knew that Mr. 
Bowyer was more than ordinarily nervous. 

After some hesitation she went over to his room and 
knocked at the door. 

In a very weak and quavering voice he bade her enter; 
but she only opened the door and stood on the threshold. 

He was in bed, and looking unnaturally flushed and ex- 
cited as he beckoned to her to come nearer. 

“ I don't think it is quite safe," she demurred; “ the 
doctor said I mus't wait a little longer before I went near 
anybody who was at all afraid of infection. " 

“ I — I think," gasped the old man, painfully, “ it is too 
late for any fear of that sort. I think I have taken the 
disease already." 

In a moment she sprung forward and peered anxiously 
into the poor thin face; she laid her hand gently against 
his — it was burning, and at the contact of her cool fingers 
a convulsive shivering fit ensued. 

Not a doubt was in her mind but that he was right in 
his surmises; but she spoke to him cheerfully, and did all 
she could to relieve him, her late experience standing her 
in good stead. 

A messenger was dispatched immediately for the doctor, 
and when he came his opinion confirmed the fears of both. 
His expression was unusually grave, and Ellen saw that he 
considered the case a critical one. 

“I will telegraph for a hospital nurse from town," he 
said, as he was leaving the room. 

“ Don't you think me capable of nursing him?" asked 
Elaine. 

“ I think you more capable than many a certificated 
woman," he answered, warmly, having conceived a sin- 


HER OWN SISTER. 


209 


cere admiration for her during Janets illness; 44 but I fear 
you are not strong enough to undertake another case so 
soon after the last, unless you can get some one to help 
you. ” 

44 Mrs. Priolo would do that, I am sure. Mr. Bowyer 
has a natural dislike to having strangers about him,” an- 
swered Elaine, laying her hand with a gentle reassuring 
pressure upon the sick man’s forehead. 

44 That would do capitally of course, if you are really 
equal to the task.” 

44 1 am equal to it.” 

44 Then we will consider it settled.” 

When, after giving the necessary directions, the doctor 
had left, and Mr. Bowyer was lying back quietly on his 
cool pillows, his eyes closed, though he was not actually 
asleep, Elaine went down-stairs to find the housekeeper 
and secure her co-operation. 

She was in the kitchen, and looked up in evident terror 
as the girl came in. 

44 Is it true about Mr. Bowyer?” she asked, quickly. 

44 Quite true. I am afraid he is going to be very ill in- 
deed. Already he is terribly weak, and the fever very 
high.” 

44 Are you wise to come straight from him to me?” 
asked Mrs. Priolo, sharply, recoiling as the girl advanced. 

Elaine looked a little surprised. 

44 Does it matter?” she asked. 44 You will help me to 
nurse him, of course.” 

44 1!” — not concealing her dismay at the idea. 

44 Are you afraid? I don’t think you need be. If you 
were predisposed to take it, you would do so, as he has 
done, without being actually exposed to the infection. ” 

She spoke so calmly that Mrs. Priolo was ashamed to 
admit her unwillingness, though inwardly she had deter- 
mined that nothing should induce her to run such a risk. 


210 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ You are quite right, I am sure; and my natural place 
is at his side.” 

“ I was sure you would think so ” — quietly. 

“But,” continued the woman, hastily, “it is impossi- 
ble. I have some business in London which must be done 
— I heard i..bout it only this morning. I should lose every 
farthing I possess if I did not go.” 

Elaine smiled contemptuously, not attempting to dis- 
guise her disbelief in the hastily invented excuse. 

“ Have you considered that, if Mr. Bowyer is displeased 
at your absence, you may lose more than you would save 
by going now?” 

The woman darted an angry look at Elaine, but re- 
mained sullenly silent. 

Elaine thought of the blow that her desertion at such a 
time would be to the sick man above, and went on in gen- 
tler accents — 

“ Even if the money is not sufficient inducement for 
you to remain, you must surely remember his invariable 
kindness to you these last ten years. It would break his 
heart if you left him now, and for such a reason.” 

“ I am the best judge of my own actions. I tell you it 
is impossible I should stay ” — sulkily. 

“ Besides,” continued the girl, with patient persuasive- 
ness, “ no one could nurse him better than you; he is ac- 
customed to you, and seemed so pleased when I assured 
him he should not have a professional nurse — only you and 
I would be with him.” 

“ You should have consulted me before you made any 
such rash promise. Of course a professional nurse is the 
proper thing. Anything else would be simple madness — 
dangerous to all of us alike. Miss Ellen, for Heaven’s 
sake don’t come so near!” she broke off excitedly, as the 
girl moved a little nearer to try one more appeal. 

Elaine drew back with a deep sigh, convinced that any 
further effort would be useless. The woman’s selfish fear 


HER OWtf SISTER. 2ll 

was apparent, and nothing she could urge would avail 
since the argument of the money had not moved her. 

That Mrs. Priolo considered herself quite safe in that 
particular she did not know, nor that she had already con- 
templated departure before Mr. Bowye/s illness brought 
matters to a climax. As to the money., it was already left 
to her, and it was unlikely he would be able to make a 
new will now; while, even were he to do so, she arranged 
in her own mind another course of action that would be 
equally profitable to herself. 

The cook came in at that moment, and Elaine turned to 
her, and gained the promise of her assistance. She would 
do everything possible to help that did not necessitate her 
going into the sick-room. And with this Elaine resolved 
to be contented, knowing how the presence of any stranger 
would fret the invalid and increase his fever. What she 
had done once, surely she could do again! 

Having made her arrangements, she returned to Mr. 
Bowyer’s room. He was lying in the same attitude as 
when she left, but opened his eyes when she came in and 
smiled. She sat down beside him, and, pouring some 
lavender-water over her hand, passed it through his hair 
with a gentle caressing movement which soothed his dis- 
quietude. 

Presently he asked after Mrs. Priolo; and she told him 
that the housekeeper had been called away to London on 
important affairs, but that the cook would help her as far 
as she was able. 

He did not answer at once, but after a little while he 
said, in low sad tones which showed that he too was not 
deceived — 

“‘The hireling fleeth because he is an hireling/ ” 
Then he added — so long afterward that she thought he 
had fallen asleep in the midst of his unfinished sentence — 
“You are indeed my daughter, Elaine. I bless the day 
when I took you to my heart . 99 


m 


HER OWN SISTER. 


The quick tears Came into her eyes. For anything she 
had suffered at his hands, for all the misery of those days 
when she had been under a cloud and separated from him 
through his own weakness and another's malice, she was 
amply repaid. To know that he loved her better even 
than of old, and that she only could be of use to him in 
this his geat emergency, filled her with a grateful joy. 

Never thinking of the danger, only of the compensation 
that had come after so much pain, she stooped and pressed 
her cool soft lips to his thin dry ones, only wishing that so, 
with a kiss, she might impart some of her vitality to him, 
even if she paid the forfeit of her life. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Circumstances had combined to keep Colonel Severn 
away from England for a much longer period than he had 
anticipated. He had calculated that he might be back in 
four months at latest; but, when he arrived at his destina- 
tion, by some strange chance the very person it was most 
important he should deal with directly had left for Aus- 
tralia on six months' leave. And this was not the only 
misadventure; there were other delays; so nearly a year 
had elapsed since he said good-bye to Elaine, and for his 
son's sake had refrained from telling his love or dwelling on 
any hope he had of winning for them both a happy future. 
How long and anxious a time it had been he scarcely 
realized until he stood once more in his own house and felt 
a question burning on his lips which he could not utter at 
once. 

In his usual happy, gracious fashion Charlie was ex- 
pressing his delight at his father's return, and never 
noticed his preoccupied expression. 

“ I hardly thought to find you here still. I thought you 
would be in town," said Severn at last. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


213 

“ I ought to be there now — indeed must go in a few 
days; but — ” 

Charlie nodded comprehensively. 

44 I hoped you would have recovered from that old hope- 
less folly , 39 said Severn, sadly, rising from his chair and 
walking a little way apart to conceal his disappointment. 
He had trusted much — too much, it appeared — to the nat- 
ural fickleness of youth; and during his long absence his 
one solace had been that it was at least giving his son more 
time to forget, so that the blow he must inflict — if hope 
had not misled him — would be somewhat softened. 

44 I don’t think you quite understand,” broke in Charlie, 
nervously. 4 £ All that is changed — quite changed : Elaine — ” 

44 Loves you in return. I never dreamed of that!” ex- 
claimed the colonel, blankly. 

44 Nor is it so. She will never love any one, I think. 
She is an angel, and quite beyond the reach of any mortal 
man.” Then, seeing that his father was quite unable to 
grasp the meaning of his broken sentences, he added 
shamefacedly, 44 It is some one else I care for — some one 
quite different, but so sweet and gentle that no one could 
help loving her. Father, you remember Mary Feather- 
stone?” 

44 Do you mean to tell me that within a year you have 
fallen in love again in the very sight and almost in the 
hearing of the girl whom you professed to love before?” 

44 Oh, Elaine is not jealous, I assure you — not even 
piqued! She has sympathized with me from the first, and 
helped me in every way.” 

In the excess of his joyful relief Severn laughed aloud. 
Now that he knew there was nothing to fear in this respect, 
and that the only barrier that he, at any rate, had to con- 
sider was removed, he could afford to look at the comical 
side of the situation. 

44 Upon my honor you had some self-possession to go to 


m 


HER OWtf SISTER. 


her with such a story!” he declared at last; and his son 
had the grace to blush and proffer an explanation. 

“ You see she would never have loved me. I knew it 
was hopeless from the first; and there was a reason why she 
could not marry.” 

“ ‘ If she be not fair to me, 

What care I how fair she be?’ 

quoted the colonel. “ You are very fortunate, Charlie, to 
have your feelings so well under control.” 

“ Besides, she is so much older than I.” 

“ A year ago you thought that rather an advantage ” — 
smiling in some amusement. 

“ I should have thought you would be pleased to know 
that I am growing wiser ” — with a slightly aggrieved air. 

“ Is it wisdom? I could almost doubt it. But after all 
that is a question for your own consideration. Do you think 
Miss Featherstone will accept you, Charlie?” 

“ She has accepted me, or at least implied as much.” 

Severn crossed over to his son’s side and laid his hand on 
his shoulder with a kindly pressure. 

4 4 Forgive me if I seemed unsympathetic. At my age 
thought travels more slowly than at j r ours, and I found it 
difficult at once to reconcile the state of affairs now with 
that which existed when I went away. But believe me, I 
have only your happiness at heart, and I think you will be 
happy. Mary Featherstone is too sweet and true a woman 
not to make a good wife; I shall welcome her very gladly 
as my daughter.” 

Charlie looked up with a pleased smile; if he had noticed 
a want of cordiality in his father’s tone at first, he had not 
attributed it to any cause, and, now that it had disappeared, 
was not inclined to look any further into the matter. 

“When do you think of being married?” asked the 
colonel, abruptly, thinking to himself, with some good- 
natured scorn for a fault that he had never shared, that, 
if the girl really valued her lover’s allegiance, she Had bet- 


HER OWN SISTER. 


216 


ter make it legally her own at once, before his fickle fancy 
ranged in new directions. 

Charlie looked grave again at once. 

44 That is just what I don't know. I have not seen her 
for nearly three weeks, and it may be another month before 
we meet. Why? Ah, I forget — you did not know that 
typhoid fever is in the village. Mary has been nursing 
some of the people, and is put in quarantine in conse- 
quence. " 

44 Has it been very bad?” 

44 Nine or ten cases at present. Only one has died be- 
sides the wretched woman who* brought the sickness here.” 

44 And that was — ?” carelessly interested in the reply. 

44 Mr. Bowyer 's house-maid.” 

A sudden light flashed from George Severn's eyes, a sud- 
den dread kept him mute, though his very soul seemed to 
hang on the next few words that should be spoken. 

44 Mr. Bowyer has it now,” went on Charlie, quite un- 
conscious of the emotion seething in his father's heart — 
44 rather badly, I am afraid.” 

44 And — and Miss Warde?" 

44 She is nursing him." 

44 Then she is well?” — with a reined-in anxiety that must 
have been apparent to one less self-absorbed than Charlie. 

44 Quite well; but she must be terribly worn out. Mr. 
Bowyer has a positive horror of strange faces about him, so 
she is doing everything for him herself." 

44 Have you seen her since he was taken ill?” 

The young man shook his head in some surprise. 

44 How could I do so? You forget that the whole house 
is placed out of bounds — is a forbidden district. Where 
are you going, sir?" 

44 1 am going to see if I can be of any use,” was the 
calm reply. 

44 You don 't mean that as a reproach to me? You don't 
think I was afraid of the infection?” 


216 


HER OWN SISTER. 


44 My dear boy, no. For you to have gone would have 
been merely a senseless risk, and could only have added to 
her anxiety. Mr. Bowyer knows me, and would let me 
help to nurse him, I fancy. At any rate, I shall try it. If 
I am not back before night, send my man with some things, 
will you?” 

Scarcely waiting for the answer. Colonel Severn snatched 
up his hat and went out quickly, passing through the hall, 
but quite forgetting to take an extra coat, though there 
was a hard frost and a keen east wind blowing. 

He did not feel the cold— lie did not once give a thought 
to the danger there might be in going to the house where 
the sickness was raging. Frequent cholera camps in India 
had familiarized his mind with the idea of infection, and, 
if it had been a plague-stricken city in which Elaine was 
dwelling, he would have gone to her all the same, and 
wasted no’ time in the going. Nothing could have kept 
him from her side; he had hungered for her presence too 
long, his patience and endurance seemed failing him at last. 

The last few paces seemed miles to his hurrying feet; he 
could scarce restrain his impatience, and, when he found 
the outer door was open, he walked straight in, not waiting 
to summon any servant. 

Without hesitation he turned into the sitting-room, feel- 
ing sure that he should find her there. Nor was he mis- 
taken. She was kneeling in front of the fire, as much for 
rest as warmth, it struck the man who watched her so 
yearningly, for every line of her figure had fallen into an 
attitude of repose, and her head was leaning against the 
side of the mantel-piece as though too heavy, too weary to 
hold itself erect. 

For a few moments he stood there, silently taking in 
every detail of herself and her surroundings, content for the 
time to know that she was near, not inclined to be prodigal 
of the pleasure that had been withheld from him so long.. 
It was ecstasy sufficient to let his eyes linger on the. weffi- 


HER OWtf SISTER. 


217 


remembered form and tlie soft bright hair that he had seen 
so often in his dreams, waking as well as sleeping. One 
slim white hand lay on the dark rail of a chair beside her, 
and something in the sight moved him to a strange pity. 
It flashed upon him suddenly how often during the past 
year she must have needed love, perhaps in her thoughts 
appealing to him, but in vain. Had he been right to sac- 
rifice himself for his son's sake, if in so doing he had also 
caused her pain? 

No longer able to resist the longing to clasp her to his 
heart and with a kiss to wipe away the marks of all the 
tears she must have shed in her loneliness, he stepped for- 
ward impulsively, brushing against something as he moved 
and causing a slight sound. 

Instantly she turned, then rose slowly to her feet, com- 
ing to meet him with outstretched hand and smileless lips, 
though an intensely happy light was shining in her eyes. 

He too was very grave; the moment seemed too fateful 
for any outward show of joy, though in the hearts of both 
was a wild tempestuous gladness and neither doubted the 
feelings of the other. Not a word was needed, nor ex- 
planation. 

Severn took her hands in his and drew her closer and 
closer, till the small fair head lay upon his breast; then he 
stooped and showered passionate caresses on her mouth. 

Suddenly she broke away, a sharp fear chasing away the 
momentary warmth of color that had risen to her face at 
the contact of his lips. 

“ You ought not to be here!" she cried, alarmed. 

“ There is; no more fear for me than you," he answered. 

44 That is quite different — it is my duty." 

“ And mine to be with you! "—looking into her eyes with 
loving persistence. 44 Besides," he added, as she still 
seemed doubtful and distressed, 44 the risk is run now; if 
any harm can happen, it will happen after this. But I am 
not afraid; nor need you be, I think. It is only nervous 


218 


her own sister* 


subjects that take infection, and I have room in my mind 
for only one dear thought. ” 

She raised her pale glowing face to his — half grateful, 
half inquiring, appreciating beyond expression the keen 
pleasure his presence was to her, though for his own sake 
she was unselfishly unwilling to allow him to remain. 

“I mean to help you to nurse,” went on the colonel, 
quietly. “Mr. Bowyer knows me, and won’t mind my 
being in his room, I think. ” 

“He is delirious, and knows no one,” she told him 
sadly. “ The doctor is with him now, but directly he has 
gone I must go to him again.” 

“Just to put your assistant into the way. So soon as I 
know exactly what to do I shall send you off for a long 
rest; now that I am here, you shall not have the lion’s 
share of the work.” 

She smiled sweetly, too happy in his care to fight against 
his wish. Her lover’s arm stole gently round her waist. 

“ Tell me, Elaine — did you miss me while I was away?” 

“ Miss you? Oh, so much! The time seemed endless; 
and then we so seldom heard of you; and — and I did not 
know you cared. ” 

“ Elaine!” 

Only the single word, but she felt all the reproof it was 
meant to convey, and buried her head in his coat to hide 
the burning blush that suffused her face — for deep down in 
her heart had been the sweet assurance that she was dearer 
to him than any other. 

“Never mind, my darling,” he whispered, fondly. 
“ All the trouble is over now — I hope forever; and think 
what a happy future lies ahead. I can scarcely believe in 
my own good fortune — that I, who all my life have been 
alone, should in the end have won so great a treasure as 
your love. Elaine, tell me it is true — really true that you 
love me, and are to be my wife. ” 

For a moment she hesitated; all the old reasons why she 


HER OWN SISTER. 


219 


must never marry were as strong and uncombatable as 
ever, but they seemed to be fading into nothingness in 
comparison with her longing to be to him all that he de- 
sired. She could not say him nay — if they were to be di- 
vided, it must be his hand that should thrust them 
asunder. He was a man strong of mind and heart; he 
must decide the right and act upon it, she leaning on and 
trusting in his love. She would tell him all— all, however 
hard it might be for her to say and him to hear — and leave 
the issue in his hands. 

“ I love you/’ she said, in the low clear tones that from 
the first had sounded so sweetly in his ear. “ It is for you 
to determine whether I can ever be your wife.” 

The doctor’s voice was heard above, and they moved 
away from each other as he came quickly down the stairs. 


' CHAPTER XXX. 

There was no doubt that Mr. Bowyer was seriously ill 
— his life in danger. His constitution was utterly broken, 
and he had not strength to combat the disease, which was 
indeed of a very malignant type. Nor was it to be sup- 
posed that he would long remain ignorant of the small hope 
that was entertained as to his recovery. Naturally nervous 
about himself and prone to fits of depression, from the first 
he was low-spirited and despondent; but, when the illness 
became complicated with other symptoms, he seemed to 
grow calmer and more reconciled — or was it only that he 
resigned himself to the inevitable, and had attained to the 
courage of despair? 

One day, when Colonel Severn was sitting at his bedside, 
he opened his eyes, and, the glance that wandered round 
the room showing that they were quite alone, he began to 
speak slowly and with difficulty, but coherently — for the 
delirium had left him, while the fever too was much lower 
than it had been for some time past. 


220 


HER OWH SISTER. 


“ Severn,” he said, “ is it true that your son has trans- 
ferred his affections to Mary Featherstone?” 

“Yes, it is so ” — with no contrition on his son 5 s ac- 
count — only gladness in his tones. 

“ And you are not sorry, I can see. Well, well, perhaps 
you are right — a woman’s name should not be even 
breathed on; but, in spite of everything, I tell you there is 
no sweeter, better girl in all the world than my Elaine. ” 

“ I am not going to contradict you 99 — smiling. “ Some 
day I hope she may be my wife.” 

The sick man started in uncontrollable surprise, half 
raising himself on his elbow to look into the other’s face 
and assure himself that he heard aright. The colonel met 
his gaze with such composure, yet with such repressed ardor 
in his whole expression, that he could doubt no longer. 

“ Have you asked her?” he ejaculated in a whisper. 

Severn nodded assent. 

“ And she did not refuse you?” 

“ Why should she?” — proudly. “ She knows I love her; 
and I think she loves me too. Heaven bless her!” 

“ Has — has she told you anything of the past?” 

“ Nothing; and I wish to hear only what she chooses to 
tell.” 

The old man sunk back weak and nerveless upon his 
pillows; the unusual effort to converse had tried him more 
than he knew; for the moment he seemed to lose all con- 
sciousness, until stimulants speedily applied restored him 
somewhat. Even then he lay for a long time motionless, 
utterly exhausted, only breathing slowly and with evident 
pain. 

Severn, watching him pitifully, could not fail to see how 
near the end was and how fruitless were any hopes, though 
the doctor still spoke cheerfully of a possible if not probably 
change. 

It was more than an hour later when, reopening his eyes, 
Mr. Boywer beckoned to his companion to come nearer. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


221 


Though he had appeared so powerless, his brain had not 
been inactive, and was obviously still following the same 
train of thought. 

“ Let her confide in you — tell her what to do. I acted 
for the best. I think now I was wrong. She will forgive 
— poor child 

The broken sentences came in short gasps, and Severn 
peremptorily forbade him to say more. Enough had been 
said for him to understand that at some critical moment 
of her life Elaine had acted on the old lawyer's advice, and 
that now he feared he might have counseled wrongly. 

When the doctor paid his next visit, he found his patient 
so much worse that he no longer held out any hope, and 
considered it his duty to warn the old man of the dangerous 
state that he was in, lest there should be any arrangements 
he might neglect before his death. 

To his surprise, Mr. Bowyer evinced neither grief nor 
fear. He was a man of strange opinions. Not religious in 
the ordinary acceptation of the word, he had always en- 
deavored to do his duty, performing many a kindly act in 
secret; and his view of the matter was that he stood as 
good a chance of salvation as those who, professing more, 
were still guilty of many an unrighteous deed. Nor did he 
prove inconsistent now that the time had come that the 
strength and truth of his theory must be tested; he had 
committed no crime, broken no law; even his faults were 
trivial ones, and had injured no one but himself; while he 
was the last man in the world to proclaim himself a mis- 
erable sinner against his own deep conviction. His only 
anxiety was lest he should die before he could make a new 
will; and at his own desire a telegram was at once sent off 
to Mr. Levison requesting his immediate presence. 

This was about his last expressed wish. Afterward he 
seemed to sink rapidly; and neither Elaine nor Colonel 
Severn left him through that night. 

When daylight dawned, they were watching still; and 


222 


HER OWN SISTER. 


Elaine first became conscious of an anxious glance that now 
and then was directed to her face. It was as though there 
were something weighing on his mind of which he longed 
to disburden himself. 

The girl knelt beside him, and laid her head close to his. 

“ Is there anything you wish me to do for you ?” she 
whsipered. 

Still the dumb beseeching gaze, but no spoken reply. 

“ Is it anything about Mrs. Priolo?” she hazarded. 

But the sick man shook his head, and something in the 
satirical expression of his mouth reminded her of how he 
had so often looked when she had first known him. The 
tears came into her eyes, and her fingers tightened in their 
clasp of his thin hand as she remembered all the cause she 
had to feel both gratitude and love. 

Severn rose softly from his chair and left them alone. 
As he did so the sick ' man motioned to Elaine to come 
nearer — nearer still. His voice was so weak and broken 
that, even with her ear almost touching his lips, she could 
scarcely comprehend his meaning. 

“ Tell me— I am dying — it can do no harm now to you 
or me — were you really guilty — really guilty of your sister's 
death?” 

The momentous question at last put into words that so 
often had trembled on his lips during the last three years, 
he lay quite exhausted and still upon his pillows, but with 
his eyes still fixed tenaciously on the girl’s white startled 
face. 

“ You thought it possible — you thought I could broke 
from her at last, in uncontrollable surprise and inexpressi- 
ble reproach. 

Her earnestness was so clearly sincere that he could not 
doubt. He knew then that from the first he had never 
done her justice; he had interfered to aid her escape from 
pure compassion and a vague idea of atonement for a wrong 
once done to another, not because he believed her innocent. 


HElt GWH SISTER. 




though incapable of proving that she was so; and ever since 
lie had been a prey to the doubts and fears which were 
partly attributable to his ill-health and partly to a naturally 
suspicious disposition. 

If he had only had the courage to ask her for the truth 
before, how much he might have been spared of mental 
agony and suspense ! 

Now the assurance received so late was not all relief; it 
had its element of bitterness as well, for he could not but 
feel ashamed of his own action in the matter, and knew 
that by his moral cowardice he had done her as well as him- 
self incalculable harm. 

“Forgive — forgive me!” he implored. 44 I was wrong 
— all wrong! Can you forgive?” 

For answer she stooped and kissed him affectionately as 
his own child might have done, no trace of resentment on 
her face or in her heart. All his faults and mistakes were 
wiped out of her memory forever; she thought now only 
of his goodness to her — his love. 

Presently he fell asleep from sheer weakness; and Colonel 
Severn, coming in, insisted on her going down to get a cup 
of tea. As she reached the foot of the stairs, the hall door, 
which stood ajar, was pushed further open, and some one 
entered rapidly in a heavy coat, with a small black bag in 
his hand. 

It was Mr. Levison, arrived some hours before they had 
thought it possible he could come. He advanced hurriedly 
with outstretched hand. 

44 How is her” he asked, with eagerness. 

44 Very weak; he can not live till night, the doctor says. 
We never thought you could be here in time.” 

44 Did I not tell you that when you summoned me I 
should be here as soon as human agency could bring me? 
I just caught the night-mail, and walked, or rather ran, 
from the station.” 

She looked at him gratefully, appreciating his wish to be 


m 


HER OWH SISTER. 


kind, though really caring little for the pecuniary advan- 
tage which might accrue to her from his promptitude. 

“ He is asleep now,” she observed, gravely. 

“ Then I will go upstairs and wait till he awakes. " 

“ Won't you have some tea first? You must be ex- 
hausted after your long journey." 

He smiled and shook his head. 

“Business first," he replied, decisively. “By and by 
there will be plenty of time for refreshment." 

But, when she persisted, he swallowed a cup of tea hastily, 
hurrying upstairs immediately afterward, as though 
grudging even that slight delay on her account. 

Elaine remained alone. She took something to eat and. 
drink in mechanical obedience to her ] over’s behest, as she 
would have done anything, however difficult, that he had 
commanded, then drew nearer to the fire to warm herself, 
for she was cold and numb with fatigue. 

It had been a very trying time through which she had 
lately passed; and the worst of it was that in both instances 
her* labor had been in vain. Poor little Jane had died in 
spite of all her care; and now Mr. Bowyer, her benefactor, 
to whom she owed so much, who had been to her as a fa- 
ther, was dying too. With no clear thought for the future, 
she could not but feel how by his death she would be left 
entirely alone, with the problem of her life to be solved 
anew; and even her lover’s love could not console her for 
the impending loss. 

Half an hour later she was called upstairs, and answered 
the summons with a beating heart, for she guessed what it 
portended. 

When she entered the room, she saw George Severn 
standing by the bed; while the lawyer, with an expression 
of decorous satisfaction on his face, was gathering up his 
papers on a table a little way apart. 

Severn turned as the door opened, and motioned to her 
to come near. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


22 5 


The sick man lay quite motionless on his pillows, and 
so pallid that for the moment Elaine thought he was already 
dead. Then his eyes opened. A film was creeping over 
them; but the girl stood exactly in his line of vision; and, 
as they rested on her, a strange light suddenly illumined 
his face, a momentary tremor shook his frame. 

“ Clara V 9 he cried out, in a clear voice — a last expiring 
effort. 

The resemblance he had always seen to the woman he 
had once loved had deceived his flickering senses at the last; 
and, in the belief that she was near, uttering the name 
which for more than thirty years had never passed his lips, 
he died. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

Later on in the day Elaine was in the sitting-room 
alone. Colonel Severn, leading her gently from the death- 
chamber directly all was over, had made her lie down on 
the sofa near the fire, and there she had cried herself to 
sleep. 

When she awoke, the darkened room struck her with a 
strange pain; then, as slowly she remembered what had 
happened, she wept again as though her heart would break. 
It was more than mere grief that moved her to such a pas- 
sion of tears; it was the reaction after so long a strain, the 
chilling sense of her labors being ended where formerly she 
had had so much to do. Life for the moment seemed 
utterly blank and motiveless. 

George Severn pushed open the door softly and entered. 
Her face cleared, and she smiled sadly as she made room 
for him to sit beside her. Whether she would ever be his 
wife, or forfeit his affection forever by what she had to 
tell, the intense joy of knowing he had loved her once would 
remain with her forever. 

Severn began to speak to her about the future, thinking 
8 


HER OWH SISTER. 


226 

it well to lead her thoughts away from the present sorrow, 
and anxious too that she should understand her position. 
In any circumstances, he reminded her, it would be inad- 
visable for a youug girl to live absolutely alone; and, as 
matters stood, he could not even visit at the house without 
giving cause for gossip. The only way of eluding this 
difficulty seemed to him to be their immediate marriage; 
and he urged this upon her earnestly, yet delicately, prom- 
ising that the ceremony should be as quiet and private as 
she pleased. 

At the first suggestion Elaine started, and her pale face, 
even in the semi-darkness, showed suddenly a vivid crim- 
son. Then, as the color died away, a settled sadness came 
into her eyes and her mouth drooped piteously. She shook 
her head and clasped her hands tightly together, evidently 
in mental pain. 

“ You think it would seem disrespectful to the dead?” 
he asked her. 

Again a gesture of dissent. 

“ He would have been the last to grudge me such hap- 
piness — such rest. No, it is not that. ” 

“ Then, dearest, tell me what is the obstacle?” 

Her face twitched nervously. Though she longed to tell 
him all, so that he might judge for himself whether the 
barrier that stood between them was insurmountable or no, 
she scarcely knew how to tell him, in what words to frame 
the truth. 

“ It is for your sake I hesitate,” she said at last, in a low 
voice that betrayed all the anguish of her mind. 

He took her small clasped hands in his own strong re - 
assuring hold. 

“If it concerns me at all, you must let me judge for 
myself.” 

A long silence, during which her eyes met his wistfully 
and inquiringly, as though she would read all the working 


HER OWN SISTER. 227 

of his soul and judge beforehand how he would receive what 
she had to say. 

“ I seem to know you so little — so very little/* she said 
presently. 

“That is a trouble only time can mend** — smiling to 
reassure her. 

“But/* she continued, “I think I know one trait in 
your character. If I read it rightly, you are justly proud 
of an unstained name — a past that contains nothing that 
all the world might not know and could discuss as they 
chose. ** 

He bowed his head in half-surprised assent. 

“ I believe you to be so strong, so capable of self-forget- 
fulness/* she went on, hurriedly, “ that, however dearly 
you loved, you would not wish to marry me if by so doing 
you linked the hitherto honored name with one upon which 
disgrace — disgrace, I say — had come. If it were only for 
your son*s sake you would draw back and realize the im- 
possibility of such an act.** 

“You think better of me — or is it worse? — than I de- 
serve/* was the quiet reply. “ In the matter of my mar- 
riage I should be utterly selfish; it is my own affair, and I 
should consult only myself in the matter. My son has 
equal freedom of choice.** 

“Yet I remember/* she objected timidly, “ that you 
were disturbed at the idea of his even becoming friendly 
with a woman of whom you knew nothing derogatory — 
only that she was an actress.** 

“ Ah, there I admit I was unpardonably narrow-minded! 
But I repented so quickly of my barbarism, going even at 
once to an opposite extreme, that I think you might for- 
give me that.** 

It was impossible to resist the infection of his smile, but 
Elaine was too weary at heart for it to have more than a 
transitory effect. When she spoke, her manner was as 
grave as before. 


22 8 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ That I have been an actress you know; but there is a 
more serious disclosure that I have to make yet. Even I, 
who have had over two years to grow accustomed to the 
idea, still shudder when I remember that I — I, do you un- 
derstand? — I, whom you ask to be your wife, have stood up 
before a crowded room to answer to the charge of murder 
— the murder of my own sister!” 

Now at any rate she had succeeded in arousing him from 
the calm obstinacy with which he had meant to combat 
every objection she might raise. Eor anything like this 
he was not prepared, though he had nerved himself to hear 
the confession of something more than an ordinary fault of 
youth. He stood up to breathe more freely, and pushed 
the hair from his brow. It seemed as though space and air 
were both wanting. 

“ You are exaggerating surely!” he said, at length, not 
because he really thought so, but that she might add some- 
thing to convince him of the reality of what had passed be- 
tween them, for at present it was like a dream — a terrible 
dream. 

Directly he released her hands, she raised them to cover 
her face, not daring to meet his gaze lest she should find in 
it horror or disgust. So she answered him now, shrinking 
away as though indeed guilty of the sin of which she had 
been accused. 

“ No; it is true — all true. It was only through Mr. 
Bowyer's aid that I escaped from — from — ” 

He looked down at her with anxious, troubled eyes as the 
stammering speech remained uncompleted, and an irre- 
pressible shudder at the memories raised shook her slight 
figure. What did it all mean? It could not be that she 
was really guilty; and yet — 99 

“ Still you are innocent, Elaine! I feel you must be!” 
he exclaimed, resolute to still those hateful, mocking voices 
that insisted on making themselves heard, though all his 
love and loyalty tried to hush them. 


HER OWN SISTER. 


229 


“ Yes, I am innocent/' slie answered, with a weary, 
hopeless quietude of manner that showed him as nothing 
else could have done how the burden she had borne for 
nearly three years had crushed her spirit. Realizing how 
strong the evidence had been against her, how even her 
benefactor, who had really loved her, had not been able to 
believe her free from guilt, she scarcely expected that any 
other would trust her mere word. She gave her answer to 
the question asked with no faith in its convincing power — 
only because some reply was required, and this was the 
truth, however unlikely it might seem. 

His heart overflowing with compassion, Severn knelt 
down and put his arms about her. 

“ I believe in you; I love you all the more for what you 
have suffered; and, please Heaven, I will clear your name 
from that cruel, senseless charge!" he whispered, fondly, 
and gradually drew the bright bowed head on to his shoul- 
der, kissing from her eyes all the tears that fell in the first 
passionate gladness of her relief. 

He loved her still — he would save her from the danger 
that had threatened her so long; and all the bitterness that 
had grown up in her heart during the ordeal died away that 
moment. 

“ Let me hear everything from the very beginning; then 
I can judge how best to go to work — for I swear to you, 
Elaine, this mystery shall be solved, and you shall be your 
own bright self again." 

“ I have thought sometimes— oftener of late — that I did 
wrong to run away; I should have waited and trusted in 
my innocence; but, oh, the agony of it was, in the first 
grief at my sister's death, to stand before all those stran- 
gers, suspected of having caused it. And then, if I had 
failed to prove my story—" 

“ Hush, darling — do not grieve yourself ! Perhaps all was 
for the best; and, had it not been as it was, we might never 


230 


HER OWN SISTER. 


have met. Is it very selfish to be glad that you came here, 
from whatever cause it happened ?" 

Tor answer she clung the closer to him, so happy in his 
love, so contented in his care, that the present seemed well 
worth all the sufferings of the past. 

And so, her head resting on his breast, his arms about 
her, a refuge and very tower of strength, she told her story. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

Ada Warrington's charm of manner had been princi- 
pally on the surface. She had been a spoiled child, and 
had grown into a selfish woman, the indulgence that her 
parents had shown her being continued after their death by 
an elder sister. 

Tenderly and carefully as Elaine told her story, George 
Severn could not but see that from the very first she had 
sacrificed everything to please the willful beauty, who 
cared only for herself, and had never appreciated the affec- 
tion lavished on her, or given even gratitude in return. 
The facts spoke for themselves, and needed no comment. 

It had been Ada's wish to go upon the stage instead of 
choosing some more usual and unexceptionable means of 
earning a livelihood; and, though Elaine had resisted for 
some time, she had at last given in to her; for, in spite of 
her dislike to the publicity, she had herself a passion for 
theatricals, and was not so very difficult to persuade. 

A more determined opposition Ada had still to encount- 
er, for she was then engaged to the Reverend Robert Field, 
her father's curate, and he was naturally, both as a clergy- 
man and a lover, averse from the step she wished to take. 
Deeply in love though he was, he still had seen her faults, 
and feared that the life she would lead if she became an 
actress would only foster her vanity and love of admira- 
tion, and disincline her, or even totally unfit her, for the 
quieter existence that was all he could offer to his wife. He 


HER OWH SISTER. 


231 


used every argument to dissuade her, but in vain, for Ada, 
thoughtless and child-like as she seemed, had a strong vein 
of obstinacy in her disposition, and, as usual, succeeded in 
gaining her own way. 

What the curate dreaded came to pass. Ada's pretty 
flighty head was completely turned by the adulation she 
received, and the tears she had shed when she parted from 
her lover were dried and replaced by smiles sooner than 
even he had thought possible. It was fortunate that Elaine 
was with her to preach prudence and insist upon every pro- 
priety being observed, or the world, always censorious, and 
more especially prone to suspicion where a pretty actress 
is concerned, would certainly have found some cause for 
that condemnation which is so fatal to a woman's reputa- 
tion. Then Gerald Weare came upon the scene — a young 
man belonging to the wealthiest family in Sydney, and 
possessed of a handsome fortune in his own right, besides 
some expectations. Directly the two sisters appeared in 
society he attached himself to them; and, after more than 
a month's most noticeable devotion, he proposed to the 
younger one. 

To Elaine's indignation, Ada accepted him at once, with 
no mention of the promise that she had already given; and, 
when remonstrated with upon the deceit she had practiced, 
she retorted with those cruel words which had been brought 
forward at the inquiry after her death — 

“ You are jealous because he loves me best." 

The taunt had contained the more bitterness because in 
a measure it was true. Elaine's fancy had been taken by 
the young fellow, whose attentions had always been pretty 
equally bestowed, and who had not been altogether guiltless 
of flirtation where she was concerned. Though he pre- 
ferred the younger, gayer sister, he had not been always 
able to resist the pleasure of seeing the elder flush at his 
coming, and her lovely eyes droop shyly at his whispered 
words. Elaine had been the more prone to fall into the 


232 


HER OWN SISTER. 

mistaken idea that she was the cause of his frequent visits 
because Ada was not free, forgetting that this all-impor- 
tant fact, which might have changed the destinies of all, 
was not known to Mr. Weare. Her own pain — all the more 
hard to bear because she feared others must have observed 
and perhaps smiled at her folly — Elaine put bravely aside, 
resolved to conquer it in time; but all her womanly sym- 
pathy was aroused on Robert Fields behalf. He loved 
and trusted her sister, and now, with no previous warning, 
was to hear that all his love and trust had been in vain — 
that, even while he was planning how to provide a home 
for his promised wife, she had given herself to another. 

Elaine could not contain the indignation she felt, and 
the hot words that passed between them neither forgave till 
for one forgiveness was too late. 

Ada had declared that she herself would not write to 
confess her faithlessness to her former lover, and so it fell 
to Elaine to write the humiliating news. 

J udgiug his feelings by her own, she was not surprised 
that she never received an answer to that letter. What 
could he say? He had not even the poor satisfaction that 
she had had of speaking out her thoughts; because he was 
a man — a gentleman — he must suffer his wrong in silence. 

A week passed, during which the sisters never addressed 
each other except when absolutely obliged to do so— a 
week during which Gerald Weare was always with his 
fiancee; and Elaine stood apart, seeing the love she had 
thought to be her own lavished upon another. 

Then one night — that fatal night — Ada had hurried 
from the theater and insisted on going alone through the 
public gardens, though Elaine had so far unbent as to beg 
to be allowed to go with her. The streets of Sydney were 
scarcely safe for any woman to traverse alone so late at 
night, and the pretty actresses had one admirer at least 
who would not be overscrupulous in the manner of his 


HER OWN SISTER. 


233 


wooing, on whose account the pistol had been procured and 
its use learned. 

Against her earnest warning, Ada had gone, and the sis- 
ters had never met again. 

This was all Elaine had to tel], and Colonel Severn re- 
mained for awhile in thoughtful silence. His own idea that 
she was suffering for the sake of some one whom she wished 
to shield was evidently a wrong one. He knew her to be 
as innocent as she had declared herself; but there was 
nothing in her story that would clear her to the world — in- 
deed it would only go against her that, by her own confes- 
sion, she had quarreled with her sister on account of Ger- 
ald Weare, jealousy being the motive power that caused so 
many crimes. It would be more difficult than he had sup- 
posed to prove her not guilty of the fearful charge against 
her. 

Only one ray of light showed through the darkness. The 
young man, Robert Field, maddened by jealous pain, 
might have murdered his sweetheart rather than see her 
become the wife of any other. But at this suggestion 
Elaine smiled faintly. The young curate had not belonged 
to the Church militant by any means, and had had almost 
a womanish dread of destroying even insect-life. He was 
more likely to become a victim to melancholy madness. 

“And you can think of no one else whom it would be 
possible to suspect?” 

“ No one. Ada w r as a favorite with every one — had 
never made an enemy in her life.” 

“ Did any one know of the existence of this other lover?* 

“ No one/* returned Elaine again; and then, suddenly 
remembering her last conversation with Gerald Weare, she 
added, hastily, “lam wrong. Some one must have known, 
for when Mr. Weare was here he spoke of it; but the 
knowledge had come lately.** 

“ W hy do you think so?** 

“ Because he spoke so bitterly of her, and when he first 


234 


HER OWN SISTER. 


heard of her death he was broken-hearted. Poor fellow, 
he has altered terribly !” Then she told him what he had 
said that day — how, if ever again she were forced to defend 
herself, he could give evidence that would transfer sus- 
picion to some one else. “ Not,” she said, gravely, “ that 
we should lay too much stress on that, for, unless I mis- 
understood him, he meant Robert Field; and I am sure — 
quite sure — that he would not have raised a finger to hurt 
her — no, not to save his own life. ” 

“It is always difficult to believe evil of those we have 
known well,” he reminded her. 

“ I know that; and I have no means of proving what I 
believe to be true. It is only an idea, an intuition; but — 99 

“ A woman’s intuition is seldom wrong.” 

He spoke rather absently, his thoughts just then being 
far away with Gerald Weare. He remembered the young 
Australian’s earnest professions of gratitude and friendship; 
and, though he would have claimed nothing on that ac- 
count for himself, still he might do so for another — so 
much was at stake — and, however slight the information 
Weare might have to give, every little would help. 

“Elaine,” he said, abruptly, “would you mind my 
leaving you for a few days? I should like to see Mr. 
Weare myself and hear everything he has to tell. I shall 
be back in two or three days — before the funeral, of course. 
You might stay with Mary Featherstone — it is so dreary 
for you alone.” 

“No; I will stay here.” 

Thinking she was hurt at his leaving her just then, he 
hastened to explain. 

“ Dearest, it is for your sake I am going. lean not rest 
until your name is cleared and you have no longer cause for 
dread. Your face is far too sad; I want to see it brighter, 
as it must have been before this trouble came.” 

She looked up at him wistfully, the light of the sweet 


SEE OWH SISTEE. 


235 


gray eyes half drowned in a mist of tears; but her lips 
smiled bravely as she answered — 

“I am happier in your love than I ever hoped, ever 
thought it possible to be. If I grieve, it is for you, to 
whom all this is new and so terrible. I thought I was 
strong enough to encounter fate; but now I feel that I 
should die if they came and took me away from you. Oh, 
George/' she cried, passionately, “ I could bear the shame 
for myself, but not for you — oh, not for you!" 

“ That shame shall never come. I swear I will prove 
your innocence even before it is called in question. Elaine, 
believe me, there is no reason for this fear. " 

Folded closely in his arms, the slight frail figure leaning 
against his broad form, and the weary head pillowed on his 
breast, the assurance bore with it even more weight than it 
deserved; but what woman has ever had the heart to meas- 
ure her lover's words by the rules of probability and com- 
mon sense? He was so strong, so eager to save her, she 
could not but believe in his ultimate success; besides, had 
he not succeeded before when she herself had seen no hope? 
Presently he had to say good-bye. It was growing late, 
and the proprieties had to be observed even at such a time. 

“It is good-bye for three whole days, perhaps. Elaine, 
how I shall miss you!’* 

“ And I you!" she whispered, fondly. “ I never knew 
what love was till now. " 

She had divined the thought that might torment him 
during his absence, and with loving tact resolved to spare 
him pain. 

“ Hot when you loved Gerald Weare?" 

“ That was a fancy — a girl's romance — nothing more. 
The love I feel for you is stronger than myself, stronger 
than — Oh " — with a sudden realization of the impotence 
of mere words — “ it is stronger than anything in the 
world!" 

He smiled at her vehemence— a happy smile from which 


236 


HER OWN SISTER. 


all anxiety had fled. It was true that the doubt had as- 
sailed him whether she could ever care for him as per- 
chance she had cared for Gerald Weare; but now there was 
no longer room for doubt. In his heart were only happi- 
ness and hope. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Ont the second evening after Colonel Severn’s departure 
he unexpectedly returned. 

Elaine was in the sitting-room. She had steadfastly re- 
fused the invitation which the colonel had guessed would 
be forthcoming from the vicar’s daughter, preferring to 
think out her thoughts alone. The doubt had rearisen, 
and was disturbing her anew, whether, if no further light 
were to be ttfrown upon that dark chapter of her life, it 
would not be her duty to sacrifice her own rather than risk 
her lover’s happiness. 

It was natural that she should take a gloomy view of the 
future in her present dismal surroundings — the dead man 
lying upstairs, the home of the last two years broken up, 
and the ever-present dread that when Mrs. Priolo heard the 
news she would return, and that now there was no protec- 
tion against her malice. 

But her heart beat tumultuously with sudden hope as 
she heard Severn’s quick footstep on the gravel walk. She 
sprung up, and the next moment was in his arms in the 
hall. 

“ Well?” he asked, at length, in a happy, ringing voice, 
holding her away a little so that she might see the bright- 
ness in his eyes and guess how matters were. 

“ George, it can not be — it is too soon for — that!” 

“ It is not too soon; and my darling may hold her head 
as high as she pleases and fear no one on this earth. The 
cloud has passed away, and the future shall be as full of 
happiness as love can make it.” 


HER OWH SISTER. 


23 7 


te You — you mean — ” 

“ 1 mean that the man who is accountable for your sis- 
ter’s death-has confessed at last. Your name is free from 
even the shadow of a stain. ” 

The sudden revulsion of feeling was so great that for a 
moment she reeled and swayed helplessly in his arms. He 
led her back into the sitting-room, and put her gently into 
an easy-chair. 

4 4 It is too strange — too good to be true/ ’ she gasped, 
breathlessly. 

44 Tell me — am I not the best detective in the world?” 
he asked, gayly. 

44 1 want to know all about it, from the very beginning.” 

44 It is a strange story. When Weare was down here, he 
told you how I happened once to save his life, and a dozen 
times he professed ms gratitude to me, and swore that 
some day he would repay me in kind. Well, I went to his 
address in London, and by good luck found him, though 
he was on the point of starting off for Paris — from there 
goodness knows where. I told him all — how we loved each 
other, and that the only barrier between us was the unex- 
plained mystery of your sister’s death, imploring him to 
tell me anything he knew. You know his impulsive way. 
He caught hold of my hands and wrung them hard. ‘ I 
always told you I would prove my gratitude/ he said. 

‘ You saved my life — it is yours to do with as you choose. 
I shot Ada Warrington because she was untrue.’ ” 

A low cry burst from Elaine’s pale lips. All these years, 
exhaustively as she had considered the matter, this solution 
of the enigma had never suggested itself to her. That he, 
her sister’s lover, who had appeared so broken-hearted at 
her death, could have been its cause seemed too horrible 
to believe. 

44 It is not true— it can not be! He is saying so to save 
me, sacrificing himself from a mistaken sense of gratitude.” 

44 1 thought so myself at first, but he managed to per- 


HER OWH SISTER. 


238 

suade me at last that it was not quixotism, but the actual 
terrible fact.” 

Taking a large white envelope from his pocket, he placed 
it in Elaine’s hand. 

“ Here is a confession that he particularly wished you to 
read. He said it would explain his conduct, though it 
could not excuse it.” 

She drew out a sheet of closely written paper and read it 
aloud. Her voice faltered, but the perfect silence that 
reigned about them made every word distinct. 

“ Though every tongue may execrate me when the truth 
is known, there is only one for whose opinion I care, and 
this perhaps because she is the only one who has real cause 
to think of me with contempt and scorn. 

“ That I killed Ada "Warrington seems to me an act th&t 
circumstances justified; but nothing can pardon or extenu- 
ate the fact that by my own cowardly dread of exposure I 
have spoiled her sister’s life. It is she only who has the 
right to condemn. 

“ When Elaine Warrington stood up before those idiots 
who believed her guilty, and I saw her slowly realizing the 
terrible suspicion that was in their minds, I suffered more 
than I ever shall again, even if I expiate my crime by 
death. To remain silent while she bore the burden of my 
sin — to feel myself so weak and miserable a wretch — was 
even worse than if others had known my meanness and 
scorned me for it — for I was judge and culprit in one. Ho 
other will ever view me in so despicable a light. But I was 
resolved that, unless it was a case of an innocent person’s 
dying in my stead, I would not speak — I would not give 
my life for her unworthy one. While they thought me 
grieving for her love I was inwardly reviling her memory, 
heaping imprecations on the false woman who had wrecked 
my happiness. 

“ I had thought her so sweet and true, so child-like and 
artless in her frank admission of her love for me. Erom 


HER OWN SISTER. 


239 


the first her evident pleasure at my coming had flattered 
my vanity, and gradually it awakened something deeper in 
my heart — only gradually. For a long time I was in doubt 
as to which sister I preferred, and, coxcomb that I was, 
tried to make myself acceptable to both. Each was so 
charming in her diff renet style — Elaine with her shy dig- 
nity and semi-prudish demeanor and the deep gray eyes 
that betrayed a passionate loving soul, Ada with her happy 
gayety of heart, every feeling on the surface, and her pret- 
ty winning ways that subjugated nearly every man with 
whom she came in contact. 

“ In such a state of indecision, it takes little to turn the 
scale. One day I came upon Ada unexpectedly alone in a 
secluded part of the public gardens, and she placed both 
hands impulsively in mine, and smiled up into my face, 
apparently so unaffectedly pleased at the meeting that my 
whole heart went out to her in return. 

‘ ‘ It was the first time we had been quite alone, and not 
a creature was in sight. I caught her in my arms, and, 
kissing her with eager passion, I begged her to be my wife. 

“ She consented. Not a word was said of the young 
country curate whom she had also honored with the prom- 
ise of her hand and the assurance that he possessed her 
love. Gerald Weare, the son of the wealthiest man in 
Sydney, was too eligible a parti to risk losing by such un- 
timely candor. I thought myself the happiest man in all 
the world, but was not long in finding out my error. 

44 One night she had arranged to walk home with me 
from the theater; but when I arrived there, some minutes 
before the appointed time, she was already gone. Certain 
of finding her waiting, I had gone straight in, and by some 
strange chance the first thing that met my eyes was 
Elaine's pistol. I took it up, and, examining it carelessly, 
found it loaded. Slipping it into the pocket of my over- 
coat, I went out again, and, dismissing the brougham in 
which I had come straight from a dinner-party, walked on 


240 


HER OWN SISTER. 


with a half hope of overtaking the sisters before they 
reached home. Afterward I changed my mind, believing 
it would be a hopeless quest, and, turning off the road, 
took a short cut back through the public gardens. They 
were naturally almost deserted at that hour; but I met a 
few people, none however whom I knew. It was a fine 
night, but rather a high wind was blowing, and every now 
and then the tails of my tight overcoat — weighted by 
Elaine's pistol — were blown against my legs. I took out 
the pistol and carried it in my hand. 

“ Suddenly, as I walked along quietly, I saw through the 
trees two figures that the moonlight made clear. One was 
Ada; I recognized her at once by her white frock and big 
straw hat — for she was very fond of white, and had come 
out in summer clothing before any one else. Who the 
other was I could not guess, and a jealous instinct made 
me go nearer to discover. Close as I advanced toward 
them, they never heard, never saw me, so deeply were they 
interested in each other; and I — I was struck dumb and 
motionless. The woman who had lain upon my breast, 
whose lips of her own accord had pressed my own, was be- 
wailing her hard lot to this her former lover. She was 
marrying me for my money, because she could not face the 
evils of poverty — no, not even with him. He spoke ear- 
nestly, kneeling at her feet and suing with almost unmanly 
humility for the promise that was already perjured once. 
But she was firm — though a very child in manner, Ada 
could be obstinate enough where her own welfare was con- 
cerned. She wept, and again and again assured him that 
she could never love another — but she would marry me. 

“And I all the while was listening. As in a dream 
their voices fell upon my ear; but their meaning was clear 
enough. She threw her arms about his neck in almost de- 
spairing abandonment when, out of patience at last, he 
said good-bye. Had she even then relented, I would have 
forgiven her; but she returned at once to her stubborn re- 


HER OWtf SISTER. 


241 


f usal, and repeated tlie words, 4 I can not face poverty — 
not even with you/ 

“ He went, and, as he walked away quickly, she stood 
watching him with an agonized look, but making no 
sound, no gesture to call him back. 

44 Then she turned — to face me. 

4< She never uttered the lie that was doubtless already on 
her lips; she never spoke a word of repentance or defiance. 
The pistol was in my hand; without hesitation I raised it, 
took aim, and fired, with one shot ridding the world of the 
falsest woman tliat I believe ever drew breath. 

44 Directly she fell, I threw away the weapon and went 
home with head erect and no sense of fear — not a vestige 
of remorse in my heart. I thought I had done well and 
justly, and forgot there was any need to avoid detection. 
That I escaped was a lucky chance, not the effect of any 
deep-laid plot?. 

44 The next morning I saw things clearer, and realized 
that others would not look at the matter in the same light 
as I did. I determined hastily on my plan of action. 
When the news was brought in, I simulated so well the 
sorrow I did not feel that not a breath of suspicion ever 
rested on me. I heard Elaine Warrington spoken of as 
the probable murderess of her sister, and held my peace. 
Being innocent, I had no doubt but that she could prove 
herself so, and, if the worst came to the worst, I could 
save her. 

44 To allow another man to bear the odium of a crime I 
had committed would have been against the commonest 
principles of honor; but this was a woman; and just then 
I felt that the sex deserved no mercy at my hands. 

44 It is no tardy Temorse that nerves me now. I would 
have carried my secret with me to the grave had it not 
been that the happiness of the man who saved my life — 
the one being in the world whom 1 esteem and like above 
all others — depended upon my speaking the whole truth. 


242 


HER OWN SISTER. 


Of my crime I do not repent; were Ada Warrington to 
stand before me once more, false yet fair as of old, I 
would raise my hand again and fire. I am ashamed only 
of my selfish cruelty toward Elaine, and pray with all my 
heart that she may accept this my atonement, though 
offered not on her account, hut another’s. If she forgives 
me, I can bear the contumely of others, and feel already 
another being since I have resolved to face the conse- 
quences of my own act, the act I still deem a right and 
just one.” 

The letter was signed and attested by two witnesses. 

As Elaine w r as reading the last jmge a ring came from 
the hall door, and presently there was a sound of voices 
outside. But just then she could think only of the one 
thing, and scarcely noticed, though she heard. 

“ George,” she whispered, anxiously, “you have not 
given him up?” 

“ I? No, child. In his enthusiasm he was eager to go 
before a magistrate at once, but I would not allow it. We 
came at last to an agreement that the confession should 
never be used against him unless you yourself were threat- 
ened with any danger, and even then he should have three 
clear days’ notice to elude his pursuers.” 

“ And now I need no longer fear. Oh, George, it 
seems like a happy, happy dream!” 

“ A dream from which you shall never wake. You will 
need a double portion of gladness, Elaine, to compensate 
you for these years of sorrow. ” 

She smiled tenderly. Surely no words were needed to 
tell how thoroughly she trusted in his care, how she rested 
in his love! Then a sudden shadow came across the 
brightness. 

“ If Mrs. Priolo should come,” she began; and, even as 
she spoke, as though invoked by the mention of her name, 
like an evil spirit responding to an incantation, the door 
opened and Mrs. Priolo stood upon the threshold. 


HER 0W2ST SISTER. 


243 


CHAPTEK XXXIV. 

Mrs. Priolo entered the sitting-room with an air of de- 
fiance — the air of one who knows that she has the best of 
the position — and, without waiting for an invitation, only 
vouchsafing a grim 44 How d’ye do?” sat down beside the 
fire. 

4 4 It is bitterly cold,” she said, looking round leisurely. 

44 It is indeed. This winter has been a very severe one,” 
answered Elaine, gently. 

Colonel Severn stood erect, disdaining even an appear- 
ance of friendliness, ready at a moment’s notice to do bat- 
tle on his lady-love’s behalf. 

There was a short silence; then Mrs. Priolo spoke 
again — 

44 1 have come to look after my own interests.” 

44 1 don’t think there is any one anxious to defraud 
you,” ejaculated Severn, sharply. 

She turned with a jerk and faced him. 

44 1 am not so sure of that. A lawyer has been here and 
a fresh will made, I hear; but I am not at all put out by 
that. ” 

No one answered, and she went on, vehemently — 

44 Last time we discussed matters you had the advantage, 
colonel. You made me sign a confession of what I had 
done in the matter of that arsenic. Have you that paper 
safe?” 

44 It is at my lawyer’s.” 

44 And is not worth the ink it was written with. There 
is not a soul in England for whose opinion I care now that 
Mr. Bowyer is dead. You can make what use you please 
of it, Colonel Severn; and I shall observe the same free- 
dom of action as regards the knowledge I possess. ” 


244 


HER OWN SISTER. 


“ You will do as you please, of course,” said Severn, 
quietly. 

Her eyes were fixed intently on his face, and she saw at 
once that his calmness was not assumed, that he really was 
indifferent to her threat. She thought it would have 
fallen upon them like a live shell, and was somewhat dis- 
concerted by this rebuff where she had expected to have it 
all her own way. Then she glanced at Elaine, and took 
courage from her pale anxious face. 

“You think,” she went on, maliciously, “ that, because 
a will has been executed in your favor, you are mistress of 
the situation; but we shall see.” 

“ I am quite sure,” said Elaine, her sweet clear tones 
sounding in pleasant contrast to the other’s angry shrill- 
ness, “ that Mr. Bowyer will not have forgotten the faith- 
ful service of so many years. ” 

“ You may call it ‘ service ’ if you choose,” answered 
the woman impertinently; “but you can’t jget rid of the 
fact that I am his sister-in-law, the only connection he had 
in the world.” 

Elaine did not reply; and Colonel Severn also main- 
tained silence, tugging at his long mustache with an air of 
being bored that the housekeeper found infinitely galling. 

“ You take the matter with a high hand,” she cried; 
“ but you may find yourself in the wrong box after all. 
Perhaps you are not aware that criminals forfeit all right 
of property? When I tell all I can, I’d like to know what 
good Mr. Bowyer’s money will do either of you then.” 

Colonel Severn stepped forward hastily and placed a pro- 
tecting arm round Elaine’s waist. 

“To whom do you* refer under that insulting name?” 
he asked haughtily. 

“ To Elaine Warrington, who murdered her sister nearly 
three years ago at Sydney.” 

“ Pshaw! You know as well as I do the utter absurdity 
of that accusation.” 


HER OWN SISTER. 


245 


“ If she is innocent, she will have to prove it dog- 
gedly. 

“ That she can easily do. The real murderer has con- 
fessed; she holds the confession in her hand.” 

The housekeeper stared at the paper blankly, the con- 
viction coming slowly to her that the value of her secret 
knowledge was indeed gone. In her own heart she had 
never really believed Elaine guilty; it had seemed too im- 
probable that the girl who was always — even to her, in 
spite of provocation — so sweet-tempered and gentle should 
have taken the life of any one, above all her own sister. 
It had been to her interest to affect suspicion and doubt, 
and she had pretended so long as almost to persuade her- 
self that she was just in her condemnation; but, now that 
the charge was denied, she was convinced at once. She 
made a last effort to retain the advantage she had thought 
she possessed. 

“ Then 1 am at liberty to tell the lawyers all I know?” 
she observed pleasantly, rising from her seat as she spoke. 

“ Oh, no, no, no!” burst from Elaine’s white lips; and 
the colonel hastened to explain. 

“Miss Warrington is not speaking for her own sake, 
but another’s. If she is accused, she will be forced in 
self-defense to give up the name of the real murderer.” 

“ And that she does not wish to do?” — shrewdly. 

“ And that she does not wish to do.” 

“ I would give anything not to do it!” cried Elaine, 
impulsively. 

“ Anything in reason,” supplemented Colonel Severn, 
with a warning pressure on her arm. 

But Mrs. Priolo had taken in the situation at a glance, 
and saw that she might still make capital of her knowl- 
edge. 

“You wish to buy my silence?” she said, quietly. 

“ If you are willing to sell it.” 

“ That would depend on the terms offered.” 


Me 


HER OWN SISTER. 


44 What would you consider a fair price V 3 asked Colonel 
Severn, unable to keep an accent of scorn from his voice, 
though anxious to conciliate her, if possible, on Elaine's 
account, and because of the man whom he had once called 
friend. 

“All Mr. Bow 3 r er's fortune would not be too much to 
ask, considering all things." 

“ What things?" 

44 Why, that Miss Warrington — or Miss Warde, if you 
prefer it — will have as much money as she will want as 
Mrs. Severn, and you would rather that your wife brought 
you a name unsullied by suspicion and with no taint of 
publicity attached than any fortune, however large." 

44 If that be so, I should sacrifice my own inclination for 
the sake of what I thought right." 

44 You mean that you decline to give up all Mr. Bow- 
yer' s money?" * 

44 I do decline. " 

44 It is not my desire to be unduly grasping or unfair. 
If Miss — Miss Warde chooses to share — " 

44 1 think," broke in Colonel Severn, impatiently, 44 it 
would save time and trouble if I were to state at once what 
I am prepared to offer on Miss Warrington's behalf. As 
to halving her fortune with you, that would be absurd ; 
but she is willing to pay you well for your silence. What- 
ever Mr. Bowyer leaves you she will double. Am I right 
in promising so much, Elaine?" 

She bowed her head, feeling just then incapable of 
speech. It had been a trying interview to her, and she was 
longing for its close. Her limbs were trembling beneath 
her, and she leaned heavily against her lover for support. 

Mrs. Priolo hesitated. She was pondering in her own 
mind the expediency of accepting the offered terms. Mr. 
Bowyer might have left her only a mere pittance — only 
enough to keep her from actual want — if he had thought 
.her absence at the time of his death a cowardly desertion; 


HER OWN SISTER. 


247 


but then, on the other hand, he might have believed in the 
truth of her excuse, and in that case left his fortune divid- 
ed between Elaine and herself, as had been originally in- 
tended. Was it worth the risk, or should she bargain for 
a fixed sum? 

A gambling instinct — a remnant perhaps of the old 
reckless days when she was bar-maid at Montreal — prompt- 
ed her to do as he had suggested, the natural malice of the 
woman delighting in the idea that he might be caught in 
his own net; for she knew, however it might turn out, he 
would keep his word. 

She glanced irresolutely at his face, and saw that he was 
not inclined to parley with her longer. Then, looking at 
Elaine, she saw that her eyes were full of the excitement 
and the anxiety which she could not conceal. The old 
housekeeper felt that if she could have dealt with the girl 
alone she might have made her own terms. 

Colonel Severn’s stern tones, reminding her that they 
were waiting for a reply, hurried her decision. 

“ I accept,” she said, and stopped short. 

Weak from the fatigue of the past month, and overcome 
by the sensation of relief after the intense strain upon her 
nerves, Elaine had fainted. 

While Colonel Severn laid her upon the sofa and applied 
such restoratives as were within reach, the housekeeper 
stood on one side, and making no offer to assist. 

“ I suppose I can go to my old room?” she said, pres- 
ently. 

“ You can go where you please!” shouted the colonel, 
with what sounded like an oath. 


248 


HER OWN SISTER. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

Two days later the funeral took place — a quiet unosten- 
tatious ceremony, only sparsely attended, for Mr. Bo wye r 
had been little known, and the village was just then taken 
up with its own troubles. The severe winter had been 
keenly felt by the poor people, and then, as a last straw, 
small-pox had broken out among them, and,, though no 
one belonging to the village had died, many had been dan- 
gerously ill. But brighter days were dawning now. The 
lord of the manor had come back, and was doing all that 
was possible to alleviate their distress; besides which, the 
disease, which had alarmed rather than actually harmed 
them, was slowly but surely dying out. 

Colonel Severn had gained Elaine’s consent to a speedy 
marriage; and it had been arranged with the vicar that his 
daughter should follow them very shortly to the sea-side place 
whither they were going, and that Charlie Severn should 
accompany her as her avowed lover. So far all seemed 
bright enough; but Elaine could not enjoy her assured 
happiness while the housekeeper was present to remind her 
of the dark page in her past. She was almost as troubled 
on Gerald Weare’s account as she had been on her own, 
and thought it a point of honor to guard even more care- 
fully than before against the chance of detection. 

Mrs. Priolo had kept very much to herself since that 
first interview. Pushing and venturesome as she was, she 
could not help being overawed by the colonel’s quiet de- 
meanor and the resolute way in which he relegated her to 
her former inferior position in the household. For the 
first time in her life she was afraid to be intrusive or im- 
pertinent, though she longed to make them both feel her 
power. But she understood the necessity of not trying 


HER OWN SISTER. 


249 


tlieir patience to the utmost, never doubting for a moment 
the truth of Colonel Severn’s assertion that they held the 
proofs of Elaine’s innocence in their hands, and refrained 
from making them known only for the sake of another. 
She was aware that they could afford to defy her if they 
chose; so she remained quiescent, trusting to the hope that 
more might be left her in the will than any one suspected, 
and that this, according to the promise made, would be 
doubled. 

Directly they returned from the cemetery Mr. Levison 
led the way to the sitting-room. A cab was waiting out- 
side to take him to the station, as he was in a hurry to re- 
turn to town; so without delay he broke the seal of a roll 
of paper in his hand, and began to read the contents 
aloud. 

Severn and Elaine were seated on the sofa, and Mrs. 
Priolo, who had followed them in, took a chair close to the 
lawyer — so close that she could by leaning forward lean 
over his shoulder. 

The will was a very simple one, and as short as it could 
be without being illegal. Everything the dead man had 
possessed was left unreservedly to Elaine, to do with as she 
thought fit. No one else was mentioned. 

Mrs. Priolo’s face of blank amazement turned to absolute 
fury as she realized that all her scheming, all her plans, 
had been in vain. 

“ Do you mean to say,” she asked, tremulous with 
wrath, “ that nothing is left to me?” 

The question was merely uttered as a vent to her feel- 
ings, for she had seen for herself that only the one name 
was written— the name of the girl whom she had so per- 
secuted and maligned, and who therefore could not be ex- 
pected to show her any generosity in return. 

“ Mr. Bowyer was very weak when he made this will. 
He said he could trust Miss M arde to do all that he would 
wish for the servants.” 


HER OWtf SISTER. 


m 

44 Servants!” cried Mrs. Priolo, furiously. 44 I was his 
own brother’s wife!” 

Mr. Levison bowed politely, but remained silent. 

Elaine rose quickly, and, crossing the room, laid her 
hand lightly on the woman’s sleeve. 

44 You need not be afraid. Anything that in fairness 
you can demand I will not refuse.” 

Mrs. Priolo shook off her hand violently, and, mistaking 
her gentle sympathy for fear, was encouraged to do her 
worst. 

44 Don’t touch me, murderess!” she hissed between her 
clinched teeth, an evil light of gratified malice gleaming in 
her eyes. 

Elaine tried to speak, but could not. It was Severn who 
came and stood beside her to refute the accusation. 

44 You are uttering a wicked libel, and you know it, ” 
he declared, sternly. 

Mr. Levison hastened to interpose. 

44 It is not necessary that Miss Warde should be defend- 
ed from such a charge,” he said, gravely. 

44 If you won’t listen, there are others that will! I’ll 
move heaven and earth before I’ll allow that unjust will to 
stand! I tell you that three'years ago Miss Warde, as you 
call her, or Elaine Warrington, as she was known then, 
fled from Sydney because she could not prove her inno- 
cence of what I accuse her of!” 

She looked like a Fury, with her thin spiteful face, and 
a few locks of dingy gray hair escaping from her bonnet, 
while one arm was extended in vehement denunciation, 
and her voice had risen to a shriek. 

Colonel Severn’s quiet tones in reply came as a relief to 
all. 

44 But she can prove it now. Mr. Levison, may I re- 
quest your perusal of this?” — handing the same paper that 
Mrs. Priolo had seen in Elaine’s hand two days before, and 
a telegraphic envelope as well. 


HER OWH SISTER. 


251 


ee It is unnecessary — quite unnecessary, I assure j t ou,” 
protested the lawyer. “ This is raving madness — nothing 
less . 99 

“ Unfortunately it has a foundation of truth. The fact 
is correct that three years ago Elaine Warrington, my 
promised wife, escaped from Sydney because she could not 
defend herself from the charge of having murdered her 
own sister; but since then the real murderer has con- 
fessed — ” 

“ Oh, hush — hush! Have you forgotten your prom- 

ises?” cried Elaine, breathlessly. 

“ I am absolved from it by death. Just as we were 
starting for the cemetery this morning a telegram was 
given into my hand, telling me that Gerald Weare had 
been in that railway accident between London and Dover, 
and had died from the effects. He had desired that the 
information might be conveyed at once to me. Poor fel- 
low, it was a happy deliverance for him; and, Elaine, it is 
a deliverance for you! I have given these papers into Mr. 
Levison's hand so that he may communicate with the 
police at Sydney and the mystery of your sister's murder 
may be cleared up.” 

Elaine burst into tears — welcome tears that eased her 
heart and came as a passionate relief after the anxious 
strain of so many weary months. Severn, with his arm 
around her waist, soothed her as best he could. 

Mr. Levison, with his back toward them, rapidly read 
through the papers intrusted to his care, while Mrs. Priolo 
eagerly scanned his face to see if all hope was gone. His 
expression of absolute satisfaction showed her that it was 
indeed so — that, well and warily as she had played her 
cards, she had by unforeseen chances missed success. Hon- 
esty in this case would have been the best and most paying 
policy. 

Mr. Levison shook hands with Colonel Severn and 
Elaine, congratulating them heartily, and promising them 


252 


HER OWN SISTER. 


a speedy settlement of their affairs. As he left the room 
Mrs. Priolo also rose to go, feeling that nothing could be 
gained by remaining. 

“ George, ” whispered Elaine, (i she is nearly penniless, 
I am afraid. ” 

“ She deserves to be so,” muttered the colonel, angrily; 
but, obedient to her wish, which he guessed instinctively, 
he called the woman back. 

She turned and faced him defiantly, expecting a rebuke. 

“Miss Warrington does not desire that you should go 
entirely unrewarded for your services, though you forfeited 
all gratitude from Mr. Bowyer by your cowardly desertion 
of him in the hour of danger, and certainly deserve no 
consideration from herself. To keep you from actual 
want she will allow you an annuity of two hundred a year; 
and that will do away with the necessity of seeking any 
other employment, and perhaps working to others the 
harm you have worked here.” 

“ I am sure, sir, from whatever motive given, I am 
grateful for your help; and I wish you and Miss Elaine 
every happiness and — ” 

“ That will do — that will do!” interrupted Severn, feel- 
ing that blessings from such a source might have an evil 
effect. 

With a bland expression such as she could assume when 
it suited her purpose to be conciliatory, and with a low re- 
spectful courtesy, Mrs. Priolo withdrew; and with her 
went the last shadow of Elaine’s life. The future would 
be all joy, all peace, with only those minor troubles which 
serve to accentuate the happiness they can not disturb. 

Often it seems that the greater the pain, the sweeter and 
fuller is the compensation. 

THE EHD. 


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